


Boy with a Coin

by Archangel_Blood



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Magic, Barebacking, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Past Drug Use, Practical Magic AU, Violence, a tiny bit of (tragically one-sided) lilo, mentions of bullying, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel_Blood/pseuds/Archangel_Blood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A piece of paper falls out of the bundle, and Louis snatches it and starts reading before Zayn can prise it off him.</p>
<p>“He’ll have eyes as green as frogs.” Louis arches an eyebrow at his brother. “Very romantic, Zayn. He’ll wear sparkly boots and he’ll be marvellously kind. He can juggle, and he—four nipples?” Louis barks out a laugh. “Zayn, such person doesn’t exist!”</p>
<p>“Exactly!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy with a Coin

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my darling [Razz](http://vulcains.tumblr.com/#) for her Practical Magic AU [prompt](http://vulcains.tumblr.com/post/119836626890/anyway-i-still-really-want-a-zarry-practical-magic). Thank you for being so patient and lovely while I took ages to write this, and for doing the glorious [art](http://vulcains.tumblr.com/post/130407859850/a-few-drawings-from-archangelblood-s-practical) for this story. Look how insanely beautiful it is, go tell her so!  
> Also a huge, huge thank you to the brilliant [Izzy](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/) for the help, encouragement and hand-holding, you’re a star!  
> Title from “Boy with a Coin” by Iron & Wine  
> I own nothing, and I still have no idea what I’m talking about.

_Tell him to find me an acre of land_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme_

_Between the salt water and the sea strand_

_Then he’ll be a true love of mine_

__“Scarborough Fair”, traditional ballad_  
_

 

 

 

The branches of the weeping willow are swaying, jostling the ropes of sea shells and semi-precious stones hanging from them. Zayn wraps his fingers around a piece of smoky quartz swinging above his head. It’s his favourite, smooth and rounded, a cool, comforting weight in his palm.

“What are we doing here?” Louis whispers, loud enough to startle the lizard that must have been napping under the rose bushes. It darts between their feet and disappears in the tall grass.

Zayn touches a finger to his lips, tilting his head towards the house, an island of yellow light amid the dark garden. They can hear Lou yelling something about spaghetti sauce inside.

His brother nods quickly, immediately intrigued as he always is when he catches a whiff of rule breaking in progress. His eyes look huge, round and curious.

“What’s all this for?” Louis nudges the candles stuck into the crumbly earth with the toe of his trainer.

Zayn’s hand tightens around the stone, the now-familiar jolt of energy tingling in his fingertips. The whisper of willow leaves and the tinkling of the wind chimes grow louder, even though the air’s quiet and still.

The candle wicks spark to life like metal dragging across pavement, ten little flames flickering on at the same time; they dance and crackle happily in the warm autumn night.

“I’m older than you, you’re not supposed to be better at this,” Louis says gruffly. “How do you even know how to do that?”

“I read about it.” Zayn shrugs, crawling under the thick canopy of leaves and branches.

“You read about it?” Louis repeats sceptically, settling on the ground next to him.

“I can teach you, if you like. You open the book like so…” Zayn lifts the heavy leather-bound volume propped against the tree trunk and opens it slowly. “Now you try.”

Louis snorts, looking absurdly proud.

“Lou will flip shit if she finds out you have that,” he says, squinting at the faded gilt letters on the cover. “How’d you get it?”

“Uncle Nick gave it to me.”

“’Couse he did.” Louis snickers, edging closer to study the little bundle Zayn’s brought with him; it’s made out of an old plaid shirt with the sleeves tied on top. “So what spell are we doing?”

“ _Amas Veritas_ ,” Zayn answers calmly, pulling at the knot.

“What’s that?”

“A true love spell.”

“A true love—” His brother’s eyes bulge. “You’re twelve! Did you try, dunno, taking her out for candy floss or something? Might get you a snog or two.”

Furrowing his brow, Zayn stays silent for a moment. He’s not given snogging much thought, admittedly, but somehow the idea of snogging a _girl_ has never even crossed his mind.

He gives Louis a measured look. “Who said it’s a she?”

“Oh.” Louis pauses before making a _fair enough_ face. “Alright, who’s he, then?”

“No one. Doesn’t matter.” Zayn ducks his head, clearing his throat. “D’you remember when they brought us here?”

The sharp huff of breath is the only indication that Louis’ heard him.

Sometimes Zayn worries that he’ll start forgetting stuff, from before; Louis says he can’t remember his dad’s face anymore, because he died when Louis was only four. His eyes always get a little sad, a bit helpless like he feels another tiny piece slipping away and there’s nothing Louis can do to stop it, and it scares Zayn. It terrifies him. So he thinks about it every night before he goes to sleep, the things he never wants to forget, listing them in his mind almost obsessively, again and again: the modest flat in Walthamstow where they lived with their mum and Zayn’s dad, the _West Ham_ posters hanging over their bunk beds and the cheap little knick-knacks Mum had a weakness for—beaded curtain tiebacks, scented candles, a set of glass figurines for the window sill. They all ribbed her about it, but she’d just smile and say, ‘It’s important to make your house a home.’

They always had dinner together; Monday nights were chicken jalfrezi night. It was an old family recipe from Dad’s grandmother, and Mum was still getting the hang of it, but his dad would always assure her it was perfect, even when it was barely edible.

After school, Louis usually kicked about a football in the street, and Zayn sat on the doorstep of their building, doodling in his notebook or playing marbles on his own until Mum called them inside to do their homework. Later, Dad would huff and puff that he can’t watch the evening news, but in the end he always let Louis and Zayn have the TV to play their video games.

Sundays were for walks in Lloyd Park, and although Louis would complain he was too old to be seen with his parents in public, it was one of Zayn’s favourite moments of the week; he’d nibble on his ice cream cone and smile at the way Mum and Dad held hands and laughed together.

It was the only life they’d ever known, and it was a good one for a pair of scamps with grazed knees.

All it took to end it was a driver who jumped a red light while Zayn’s dad was walking home from work. Just three months later their mum was gone too, and Zayn and Louis were whisked away from their home by Mum’s brother and sister, whom they hadn’t even met before. They looked like they’d dressed up for a Halloween party at nine on a Sunday morning, barely old enough to be anyone’s guardians, but they both had gentle smiles and gentler eyes. And when Zayn ran back upstairs and started grabbing some of Mum’s little knick-knacks at random, vision swimming with tears as he clutched the glass figurines, a flower print brocade cushion and a sea shell picture frame to his chest, Lou helped him find a bag for them instead of telling him off, and then carried it to the car without a word.

The boys had never stepped foot outside London before, and they didn’t know what to make of the weird little seaside town on the Yorkshire coast that was to be their new home, where everyone seemed to know each other and people stared at them strangely.

Aunt Lou and Uncle Nick’s small, odd-looking brick house was probably built by someone mad or colour-blind, Zayn remembers thinking. It had a slate roof with wonky, yellow-painted towers, a wide porch with a bright blue railing and glass jar lanterns hanging from the eaves, and there was a weeping willow in the backyard.

Louis was thirteen, gripping the hand of an eleven-year-old Zayn so hard it hurt.

Aunt Lou made them chocolate biscuits for dinner, though, and Nick helped them build a blanket fort and let them sleep there instead of their beds.

Curled up together in their fort that first night, with the grey kitten they’d smuggled inside purring happily between them, they knew their lives had changed forever.

“Lou said she didn’t care if I washed my ears before bed,” Zayn whispered, chin wobbling. “Mum always checked and made us wash them again if we missed a spot.”

“Yeah.” Louis carded his fingers through the kitten’s fur and it let out a soft mewl, pushing into his hand.

“And we complained and gave her trouble.” Zayn pulled his knees up to his chest. “I’d wash my ears three times a day if she would just come back. Can we get her to come back, Lou?”

“I don’t think so,” Louis sighed, throwing an arm around Zayn’s shoulders. “Just you and me now, little bro.”

His hand was shaking, but it was warm and comforting, so Zayn grabbed it, wishing he could comfort his brother too.

He swallowed back the tears. Crying wasn’t going to console Louis, he was pretty sure; Zayn had to be strong for him. He didn’t feel very strong, was the thing; he felt small and lost and helpless, and that wouldn’t do. He needed to grow up faster, Zayn concluded, nodding to himself.

“You and me, yeah, Lou?” he asked, hating his tiny voice.

“Always,” Louis promised.

He could start being a grown-up tomorrow, Zayn decided, burrowing his head into his brother’s shoulder to hide his wet eyes.

If they thought their lives had changed forever then, two months later they realised they hadn’t known the half of it. At first, when their aunt and uncle gathered them in the living room one afternoon to tell them a story about magic and witches and wizards, Zayn and Louis had laughed, thinking Lou and Nick were taking the piss. Then the boys had started to eye the exits inconspicuously, communicating a silent escape strategy, because it turned out they were completely serious. Nick hadn’t even tried to make one of his lame jokes, so the only logical conclusion was that they were left in the care of two stark raving mad siblings. Finally Lou made the ceiling rain rose petals down on them, which had Nick laughing maniacally at his sister’s ‘flair for drama’. There was no denying it after that, though, not when they had to spend the next hour plucking wilted flowers out of their hair.

“Why didn’t we know that?” Louis sputtered.

“Your mum didn’t want you to know,” their aunt explained with a sad smile. “She wanted you to grow up normal. Not like—”

“You,” Zayn supplied.

“Yes.” Nick’s jaw tightened, his sharp face and quick, shrewd eyes making him look more hawkish than ever. “She thought it would rid her of the curse, and look where it got her.”

“Nick,” Lou hissed.

_Curse?_ _What curse?_ Zayn wondered.

“Yeah, what curse?” Louis asked.

Their aunt and uncle exchanged glances.

“Did they just—”

“I think they did,” Lou said thoughtfully.

“What curse?” Zayn repeated out loud.

“Well, apparently,” Nick drawled, leaning back in his chair, “one of your however-many-great grandmothers was jilted by her lover, and in her heartbreak she accidentally cursed her offspring to lose their loved ones and die of grief.” He gave them a wry smile. “A proper fairy tale, innit?”

“There’s no curse, darlings.” Lou wrinkled her nose at her brother. “It’s complete rubbish that only fools like your uncle Nick believe in.”

“Maybe so.” Nick crossed his legs extravagantly, making Zayn giggle. “But my heart’s safe, and no poor sod will meet an untimely demise because of me.”

Something clicked then, and Zayn abruptly stopped laughing.

“Did…” He swallowed around the lump in his throat, “did Mum die of a broken heart?”

Their aunt sighed, eyelashes fluttering like she was blinking away tears.

“I reckon she did, love,” Lou said, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

 

Louis still hasn’t said a word, eyes fixed on the bundle in Zayn’s hands.

“That woman who came to see Lou today…” Zayn trails off, scratching his nose.

“The one who wanted a love spell to make some guy leave the missus?”

“Yeah.”

Love spells don’t work, Lou said once. Not like people want them to.

They do, but it’s not the heart that swells up, Nick corrected, wiggling his eyebrows; it’s why they wore off so quickly. Lou smacked him upside the head, snorting. Zayn didn’t really get the joke, but Louis laughed, so it must have been funny.

“Aunt Lou burned some incense and sold her a bunch of crystals,” Louis says derisively. “That’ll do ‘bout as much good as _Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo_.”

“I know, but did you see how sad she was?” Zayn shakes his head. “Everyone who falls in love either dies like Mum, or wishes they were dead. I’m never falling in love.”

“Of course you are,” Louis scoffs. “Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not,” Zayn says, scowling.

“Are too.”

“Am—” He catches himself and closes his mouth with a huff. “Shut up, Louis.”

A piece of paper falls out of the bundle, and Louis snatches it and starts reading before Zayn can prise it off him.

“He’ll have eyes as green as frogs.” Louis arches an eyebrow at his brother. “Very romantic, Zayn. He’ll wear sparkly boots and he’ll be marvellously kind. He can juggle, and he—four nipples?” Louis barks out a laugh. “Zayn, such person doesn’t exist!”

“Exactly!”

“Right.” Louis’ eyes widen. “Oh, _right_!”

Zayn bites his lip, hesitant. “We can do one for you too, if you—”

“No way.” Louis grins. “I can’t wait to fall in love.” Zayn looks at him like he’s lost his mind, and Louis shrugs. “I bet Mum never regretted loving my dad and yours, even when…” He blinks, averting his eyes.

“You think it’s worth dying for?” Zayn asks quietly.

“Dunno.” Louis stares at his dirty trainers. “I guess it wasn’t worth living without.”

Chest tight, Zayn places a water glass in the centre of the circle, then fills it with sea salt and sugar, honeysuckle and a fistful of rose petals, a couple of rose quartz crystals, the piece of paper with his writing on it and finally some comfrey root.

He makes a face; Aunt Lou uses comfrey root to treat old man Henry’s gout, and Zayn fails to see the common denominator between love and gout, other than how he sincerely hopes neither happens to him, but the book said comfrey root, so what does he know.

Quiet for once, Louis follows his movements with keen eyes as Zayn holds up a sprig of thyme to one of the candles. A spiral of smoke curls around Zayn’s wrist like a lazy snake, before suddenly locking it into place over the circle as the flames flare up again; it shocks a breathless gasp out of Zayn, and he drops the thyme, fighting the urge to struggle against his gauzy, sweet-scented shackles. He realises the spell won’t let him stop now that he’s started, and it freaks him out a little, but he wasn’t planning on stopping anyway. Squeezing his eyes shut, he begins the _Amas Veritas,_ chanting the words under his breath.

He can hear the wind chimes again, louder than before as a gust of wind rattles the tree branches. A sharp hissing sound has Zayn’s eyes snapping open again, just in time to see the contents of the glass swirl furiously in a shimmer of gold, before the glass shatters into pieces.

The candles go out abruptly, as if they'd been snuffed out.

Louis stares at him, slack-jawed.

Cradling his right hand to his chest, Zayn watches the earth soak up the remnants of the spell until all that’s left are glass shards, glinting faintly in the pale moonlight.

 

 

 

Growing up, Zayn learned a lot about otherness—strange, shy Zayn Malik with his watchful hazel eyes and a tangle of dark hair, who could tie his shoelaces without touching them and wouldn’t eat pork.

Zayn was pretty sure other kids didn’t get their houses egged or spray-painted with ugly words every Halloween either, even though Lou always had sweets ready for callers.

He was trying to hold on to roots that were getting thinner and more fragile by the day, and to grow new ones in a place where no one wanted him to.

Sometimes Louis would come home with a split lip and raw, bloody knuckles, smiling sheepishly when Zayn asked what happened. He always waited for Louis to fall asleep in his bed across the room before he started crying.

“Devil worshipers,” their neighbour hissed when they walked past his house, loud enough for Louis and Zayn to hear. He even spat at Zayn’s feet once.

“Ignore them,” Lou said, pulling them both into a tight hug.

“Nothing’s changed since the Dark Ages, they just can’t hang us and burn us at the stake anymore,” Nick added, smiling bitterly. “A fact they can’t make their peace with.”

They still flocked to their door, all those people who wouldn’t greet them when they passed them in the street and whose kids never sat with Louis and Zayn at school, and they asked for help when they needed a good luck charm or they had a skin rash that wouldn’t go away. Louis despised them for it; Zayn pitied them. Lou and Nick took their money and never turned anyone away.

The first time Louis took a boy out on a date, one of his classmates yelled something at him in the grocery store the next day, a word Zayn had never heard before. Louis flinched, though, his eyes dimmed and his lips started trembling, and Zayn’s hands balled into fists before he could stop himself. The crate of tomatoes right next to the boy who’d insulted Louis exploded, painting the whole aisle red, and one of the plastic shards smacked him in the face so hard he ran away crying.

The shop owner was livid, of course. He’d already decided Zayn and Louis were to blame for the mess, which was kind of the truth, really, so they graciously allowed the guy to grab them by the elbows and return them to their uncle. Louis refused to talk, so Zayn had to explain the incident. Nick waited until they were back in the car before he wordlessly ruffled their hair, eyes sadder than Zayn had ever seen them.

On the ride home, a pale-faced Louis gave Zayn a fierce, albeit shaky smile; _you and me_ , it said, _us against the world_.

It was then that Zayn first realised what a small, lonely place the world can be.

He never asked Paul out, the boy from Year Eleven with the long eyelashes and the sleepy smile, who never said anything mean to Zayn, not even when he caught him staring. Sometimes Zayn wonders whether Paul would have said yes, had Zayn summoned the courage to talk to him.

Zayn lost his virginity to their wanker of a neighbour’s daughter, Sarah, who didn’t seem to find Zayn as repulsive as her father did. Louis laughed to tears later, calling him cold and ruthless, and Zayn refused to admit even to himself how good it had felt to park Louis’ ancient _Volvo_ behind her house and have her ride him in the backseat within earshot of her old man. Biting his knuckles, eyes squeezed shut, Zayn had come with a low grunt and Paul’s face behind his eyelids. Feeling like the biggest dickhead in history, he’d kissed Sarah so tenderly as she climbed off him he probably scared her off, because she never called him again.

Things started to change when Zayn turned seventeen soon after; his face lost the baby fat, he got his first tattoos, and suddenly girls started smiling at him and guys wanted to hang out after school. Zayn had friends, and for the first time in their lives, he and Louis were at odds.

“Those are the same people who tripped you in the hallways and left dog shite on our porch,” Louis told him. “You think they’ve changed? It’s you who’s changed, Zayn, just to make a bunch of tossers like you.”

“You’re just jealous cos no one likes _you_ ,” Zayn blurted, regretting it before the words were out. He’d had his first taste of belonging, though, and he wasn’t ready to let that go.

Louis shook his head and gave him a look Zayn didn’t think he’d ever forget.

That year Louis fell in love for the first time, with a girl who was moving to Liverpool. He quit his job at the local garage and told Zayn he was going with her.

“I think she might be the one,” Louis said one night as they sat on the porch, sharing a bottle of whiskey.

Zayn’s heart clenched like a fist, but he just nodded.

“That’s it then?” He leaned back in the wicker rocking chair and watched the jar lanterns twinkle in the darkness. “You ever coming back?”

“’Course I am,” Louis said, reaching over to brush his knuckles along Zayn’s jaw. “You and me, yeah? You’ll be minted and retired at forty, and I’ll come live in your honking big house so we can annoy the fuck out of each other for the rest of our lives.”

“Yeah, alright,” Zayn laughed, taking the bottle from him.

At first they talked on the phone every night, then started texting every few days. Louis and the girl split and he moved to Bristol to be with a bloke who he thought might be the one, and Zayn went to read law in London. He was just one of thousands like him, no magic, no weird looks; he pulled all-nighters to study for exams, made friends, had a pint on Fridays and took home girls he knew he’d never see again.

The first time he let a bloke push him into the toilet stall of some club and suck him off, kneeling before Zayn on the grimy floor, he came down his throat with a stuttered warning and tears in his eyes, and then slumped against the wall and laughed until he cried. The guy was so terrified, Zayn gave him his number and went out with him a few times by way of apology.

He held his breath, waiting for the weirdness, for the strange stares and the whispers behind his back, but they never really came.

His roommate at the time smiled at Zayn one morning over breakfast, teasing him about his ‘boyfriend’ good-naturedly, and Zayn was ready for earth-shattering changes and life-altering events now that things were out in the open, but nothing happened. He pulled all-nighters to study for exams, had a pint with friends and took home blokes he knew he’d never see again. He didn’t date, didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, but it was enough. It was…normal. _He_ was normal.

Every now and then he’d receive a text from Louis, perpetually on the move and never not in love. His brother was always on Zayn’s mind, a late night thought, a deep worry line between Zayn’s eyebrows, a sudden pang in his heart.

During his fourth year in London, Zayn started hearing vague, uncomfortable murmurs from his aunt and uncle and from old acquaintances back home. He got a call from Louis at 7 a.m. once, asking Zayn to pick him up from the police station. Zayn hadn’t even known his brother was in London. He hailed a cab wearing pyjama bottoms and a leather jacket with nothing underneath, nearly mindless with worry. Drug possession and disorderly conduct, an officer said. Louis tried to laugh it off, insisting it was nothing, and when Zayn kept asking where he’d been and if he was in trouble, Louis got defensive and left without another word.

That was almost three years ago, and Zayn hasn’t heard from his brother since.

 

 

 

“D’you live in this pub now? Jesus, Zayn.”

Zayn looks up from the bar he’s wiping down to smile at his best friend.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” he says.

Cursing him amicably, Niall hops onto a bar stool. His bleach-blond hair is sticking up in every direction, the blue of his irises startlingly bright in his bloodshot eyes. There’s a pink lipstick stain on his shirt collar.

Zayn snorts. “Good night?”

“Can’t complain.” Niall grins at him, then checks his watch. “Why are you still here? I saw Linda leave hours ago.”

Linda, a widow with two grown sons who live in Manchester, works at the pub four nights a week, mostly out of boredom. Zayn can barely afford to pay her, but he likes having her around and she’s a decent cook. Linda, bless her heart, also doesn’t give a shit about the dishwasher that sometimes starts to stack itself without outside help if Zayn gets distracted, or the bloke she saw sneaking out of Zayn’s room above the pub that one time.

“Just tidying up a bit.” He tosses the cloth under the bar, then pours a couple of pints and slides one towards Niall.

Niall nods appreciatively, holding it up. “To the best barman among the lawyers, and the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

Zayn laughs, unfazed. Towards the end of his training contract with a mid-sized city firm last year, he politely asked not to be considered for a job on qualification. Everyone thought he was mental when he moved back home to open a pub, but Zayn hasn’t regretted it so far. He grew out his hair and got about ten new tattoos, now that he didn’t have a dress code to observe, and he finally had something to call his own.

The locals were wary at first, but his was the only pub in town, and although one of the patrons complained of an inexplicable, vicious itch on his backside after he’d called Zayn a good-for-nothing sluggard for making him wait for a refill, Zayn and the townsfolk have learned to tolerate each other, mostly.

He looks around the pub, the oak tables gleaming in the dim light, polished to within an inch of their lives, the cobbled floor, the stained glass windows and low ceiling with wood beams, and his heart swells with pride like it always does. It’s small and not very sophisticated, and most days he breaks even, but it’s his. As is the tiny room above the pub that came with it, barely big enough to fit a mattress on the floor and a bookshelf against the wall. Zayn doesn’t need much else, though; he’d only taken a holdall’s worth of clothes and some books when he left London, so he’s got no use for a proper flat.

Things are good. Things are great.

And if sometimes the familiar itch in his fingers gets almost too much to contain, the energy sloshing inside him like a trapped ocean tide trying to split him in two, well. He’s strong enough to deal with it. He doesn’t do magic anymore.

“I reckon a lot of poor sods would give their right arm for you to gaze at them like you look at this hovel,” Niall remarks, rolling his eyes when Zayn caresses the stone wall.

“Don’t listen to him, darling.” He gives Niall a dirty look. “No more free pints for you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Niall pouts. “You love me.”

“Hmph,” Zayn says, biting down on a smile. Walking around the bar, he takes the stool next to Niall’s. “How was work?”

Niall groans. “One of these days, I’ll tell my boss to shove it, I’ll go back to Ireland, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s been saying that since they were still at school, and that’s about how long Niall’s been working at the grocery store and bitching about it.

“I’m knackered,” Niall mutters, finishing his beer. “Mind if I crash at yours?”

“Sure.”

Niall puts their glasses in the dishwasher while Zayn empties the till. He’s about to lock up when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

“It’s 3 a.m.,” Niall says, wiggling his eyebrows. “A booty call?”

Zayn huffs, taking the phone out. “Doubtful.”

“Right.” Niall folds his arms across his chest. “Forgot prolonged exposure to your prick is apparently deadly.”

“Fuck off.” Zayn’s lips twitch. Niall knows a little bit about Zayn’s bizarre family history, and while he accepted the fact that his best mate used to practise magic without batting an eye, the ancient curse still has him scoffing.

Zayn’s smile freezes when he glances at his phone, his legs almost giving out.

“What’s it?” Niall asks, walking over to where he’s standing.

“Louis,” Zayn stammers, lips suddenly numb. “It’s Louis.”

“Oh.” Niall clasps Zayn’s shoulder. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

Zayn and Niall became friends in their last year of school when Niall’s dad moved here from Ireland, but he doesn’t think Niall and Louis ever exchanged more than a couple of words. Louis thought Niall was another knob who pretended to like Zayn, and Niall had no time for anyone’s bullshit, so he’d just ignored Louis.

“Lou?” he whispers into the phone.

“Zayn, I think—” Louis stops as his voice breaks, and Zayn’s heart drops to his feet. “I think I killed my boyfriend.”

Exhaling sharply, Zayn grips his phone so hard it squeaks plaintively. “Where are you?”

“Home, I’m…” Louis trails off, swallowing audibly.

“Home?” Zayn repeats, and Niall’s hand on his shoulder tightens.

“Just parked in front of the house.” There’s some rustling on the other end of the line, then a quiet click. “He’s…Joel is in the boot.” Louis laughs and the sound turns Zayn’s blood to ice. “He’s in the fucking boot of my car.”

“Stay there,” Zayn says, already moving to collect his keys and wallet. This is what autopilot feels like then, he thinks distantly—his hands and feet are moving, but he can’t remember telling them to. “I’m coming, Lou, just stay right there.”

“Tell him to turn off the lights,” Niall adds, holding out his hand, palm up. “I’ll drive.”

Zayn’s head snaps up.

“No,” he says, taking a step back. “Niall, no. You’re going home. This isn’t your problem.”

“It’s not yours either.” Niall shrugs. “It’s what family’s for.”

Zayn’s eyes prickle, and he rubs them with the heels of his palms; he can’t tell if it’s panic or gratefulness.

“Zayn,” Niall says softly.

“M’good.” He sucks in a breath and releases it slowly, then drops the car keys into Niall’s waiting hand. “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

The car is in the driveway, lights off like they told him. The house is dark and quiet; Zayn vaguely recalls Nick and Lou mentioning Beltane celebrations and maybe something about a bonfire, he’s not sure.

Niall turns off the engine of Zayn’s old _Frontera_. “What the fuck is he driving?”

“Looks like it was made from two different cars,” Zayn mutters, wrinkling his nose. “You could just as easily transport a dead body in something less hideous.” Niall snorts, and Zayn feels his eyes widen. “I did not just say that!”

Smirking, Niall undoes his seat belt and Zayn follows suit, fingers fumbling with the lock.

Louis must see them approaching, because he steps out of the car, moving slowly and with obvious difficulty, like an old man. For a moment Zayn just looks at him, chest so heavy he can barely breathe. There are dark circles under Louis’ eyes, his greasy hair lying limply on his forehead, doing nothing to conceal the nasty-looking purple bruise above his left cheekbone.

“Lou.” Zayn stops walking, his legs unsteady.

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Louis stares at his feet. “Hey, bro.”

“You look like shit,” Niall says by way of greeting.

Louis glares at him. “What’s he doing here?”

”Helping clean up your mess,” Zayn says flatly.

“You’re welcome.” Niall kicks one of the tires. “Jesus, this thing’s falling apart.”

A muscle jumps in Louis’ jaw, then he shrugs and pops the boot open.

“Fuck.” Niall reels back, almost knocking into Zayn who still hasn’t moved.

“Killed my boyfriend, like I said.” Louis smacks his lips together. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Niall’s taking deep, ragged breaths; Zayn’s hoping he doesn’t throw up. “You sort of killed him, or he was sort of your boyfriend?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call what we were doing dating, exactly.” Louis scratches the back of his head, not meeting Zayn’s eyes. “But I mean, it was an accident.”

He’s shivering, Zayn realises, and there are beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

“You still doing that shit, then?” he hisses, surging forward. “That what happened? Did he take too much?” Their faces are so close that their noses are touching, and Louis winces, trying to pull back. Zayn grabs his arm. “You fucking idiot,” he spits, and his brother suddenly deflates, sagging against him. Zayn instinctively grabs onto him to keep him upright, exchanging an anxious glance with Niall. Niall shrugs helplessly, still slightly green in the face.

“I’m sorry, I fucked up,” Louis rambles into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

He turns into dead weight in Zayn’s arms, and Zayn staggers backwards.

Steeling himself, he turns to look inside the boot, and yeah, that’s a dead body in there, alright. The guy’s young, mid-twenties probably, naked apart from his briefs. He’s reasonably good-looking too, aside from the whole, well, being dead thing.

Zayn feels as if his stomach’s been turned inside out; to his horror Louis starts crying, huge, heaving sobs and a flood of tears that burn into Zayn’s skin like live coals.

With a shaky sigh, he presses his cheek to the top of Louis’ head and holds onto him a little tighter.

 

 

 

Bringing a dead person back to life is the vilest and most despicable of all magic, and a curse shall befall the perpetrator, the old books say. These spells rarely yield satisfactory results, the small print warns. Don’t, Nick told them once; ever.

Yet on a chilly spring night, years after he’d sworn off magic for good, Zayn finds himself lining up ingredients he normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole on the kitchen table.

They were mixing magic with drugs, the bloody fools. Zayn closes his eyes for a moment, bracing his hands on the table.

“We didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Louis said, eyes huge, pleading, and so terrified they were tearing Zayn’s heart to fucking pieces. “We wanted to fly, just for a little bit.”

“Well, this one here had a rough landing,” Niall piped in, peeking out the window at the body he and Zayn had just carried to the backyard, and then Zayn had to break up a fist fight on top of everything.

Then, shaking so badly he was sloshing the tea Zayn made for him out of the cup, Louis asked for help.

So of course Zayn’s getting ready to break the biggest taboo in the craft that was once punishable by exile from the coven or even death. The fact that it feels like he’s desecrating Lou’s small, neat kitchen with fluffy white curtains and yellow tiles above the sink doesn’t help; he and Louis used to sit at the kitchen island before school and eat cake for breakfast, and in the evenings Nick sat with them at the kitchen table and helped them with their homework.

“You sure you know what you’re doing, mate?” Niall asks quietly, leaning back against the counter. He eyes the book lying open on the table with distaste. “I’m not an expert, but ‘shame and suffering be upon you and your descendants’ sounds dodgy to me.”

“Can you pass me the toad leg, please?” Zayn says, not looking up.

“The—” Niall makes an _ewwgh_ sound and drops the shrivelled limb into Zayn’s hand. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Ewwgh?”

“Zayn.”

He chucks the toad leg into Lou’s blender; she’s going to kill him.

“What other choice do I have, Niall?”

Niall looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“I don’t know.” He pretends to consider it. “Not use bloody black magic to bring back a dead man? Are you insane?”

“There’s no such thing as black and white magic,” Zayn stalls. “Magic is magic. It’s the person who—”

“Sod off, Zayn.”

Sighing, Zayn glances at Louis over his shoulder. He’s not looking at them, curled up on the sofa in the living room with his head in his hands. He seems to be going into shock, Zayn thinks, worried.

“He’s my brother. I can’t let him spend the rest of his life in jail just because he’s a nitwit whose boyfriend got off on magic.”

“I’m sure if he just tells the police it was an accident—”

“No.” Zayn stuffs a handful of dried amaranth flowers in the blender a little forcefully. “I’ll fix this, Niall. I have to fix this.”

Niall stares at him for a beat longer, then nods sadly and hands Zayn the vial of hyssop oil that’s next on the list.

 

 

 

Louis’ hand is hot and sweaty in his, and when Zayn tightens his fingers around his reassuringly, the circle of candles on the ground seems to become brighter, the flames jumping almost excitedly as the ancient words roll off their lips.

_I can hear the wind chimes again_ , Zayn thinks, some distant, long-forgotten memory stirring in the back of his mind like a shadow. He pushes it away, squeezing his eyes shut again; he has to focus.

The energy slithers through him like good whiskey, curling around his lungs and heart almost triumphantly, pulsing in his stomach like the first sparks of lust, and God, he’d forgotten this part. His mind’s a haze with the burn and sweetness of it, his skin feels tight, almost too tight to contain him, and yeah, fuck, can he see how someone can get addicted to this.

Heavy and thick on the tongue, the spell tastes almost sensual, forbidden, intoxicating, and Zayn knows this can’t be good. He’s thankful he’d sent Niall home before they started, despite his protests.

The wind’s stronger now, vicious, and Louis raises his voice over its howls. The weeping willow above them shakes, leaves whispering like angry ghosts.

Then Zayn looks up and sees it; Joel’s hand twitches.

“Joel?” Louis whispers, and the guy’s head turns to them slowly.

The fire inside Zayn turns to pure, primal fear when he sees the eyes staring back at them.

They’re not human, is the thing; glassy, opaque and definitely, undoubtedly _not_ human.

“Hi, ducky,” the ex-dead body coos, and evil, Zayn thinks, panic rising in his chest. _Evil, evil, evil_.

Joel’s lips are stretched in a smile, something cold and ugly that makes the hair on the back of Zayn’s neck stand on end. He knows Louis can feel it too, because he makes a strangled sound, choking on air like it’s stuck in his throat.

Joel, or what used to be him, pushes himself up to a sitting position. Whatever this thing is, it’s not him anymore. Or at least Zayn can only hope his brother wasn’t shagging a hellspawn that looks like it wants to rip their throats out and drink their blood.

“I didn’t mean to, you know that, right?” Louis pleads, lips trembling. “I was too fucked to control it, please, you have to know that.”

Something flashes in Joel’s dead eyes; he stretches out his arm to reach for Louis and flinches, a low growl gurgling in his throat before he shakes his head, as if to clear it. His smile returns, and Zayn kind of misses the growling.

“Of course I know, ducky,” Joel says, looking up at Louis through his eyelashes. He’s pretty, Zayn thinks, or was, or would be, if he wasn’t the worst thing Zayn’s ever seen. “But I’m here now. Told you I wasn’t letting you go.”

Kneeling, Joel reaches for Louis again and then springs back as though he’s been burned. Zayn pulls his brother back without thinking, slipping a little on the wet ground. Louis goes, pliant, too damn pliant.

Joel narrows his eyes.

“You can stop whatever you’re doing now, Louis. It’s alright, I’m here.” He moves along the outline of the circle on his hands and knees, dark hair falling over his face. It’s probably meant to look coy, but Zayn’s so creeped out his skin is crawling. “You hear me, Lou? It worked. You can stop now.”

Louis starts to let go of Zayn’s hand, face blank, but Zayn yanks him back again.

“Just step out of the circle, Joel,” he says quietly.

That gets him another growl, and Joel sits back on his haunches, turning his attention to Zayn for the first time.

“You must be the brother.” He cocks his head to one side. “The smart one, the talented one, while Lou here got fucked out of his mind and shagged everything that moved as long as they had the good stuff, innit, love?”

Louis doesn’t say anything, just drops his chin, and Zayn grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

“Ever the failure, our Lou.” Joel laughs and if Zayn wasn’t scared before, now he’s ready to grab his brother and run. “He knows he’ll never be as good as you, so he must have figured, why bother.” He gives Zayn a sidelong glance. “You did this to your brother. You made him feel like a lost cause. Oh yeah, he told me all about it. Look at him now. A slag. An addict. A murderer,” he hisses. “It’s all your fault, Zayn. How’s that feel?”

It hurts, is how it fucking feels, the thought that there might be some truth to the venomous words, that he made his brother feel like he wasn’t enough. It hurts so much that Zayn loses his breath for a second.

Louis suddenly looks awake, though, hurling himself towards Joel.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” he snarls, and Zayn barely manages to grab him before Louis can break the circle, wrapping both arms around his waist. Louis struggles against his hold, kicking and writhing and yelling obscenities.

“Stop it, Lou!” Zayn spits. “Fucking stay still!”

“He’s a liar,” Louis shouts. “A bloody liar and a bastard, and the worst fucking shag ever, you hear me, you floppy prick!”

“Fuck’s sake, Lou, shut up!” Zayn’s panting with the effort to hold him back. Joel’s laughing, cackling more like, grating on Zayn’s already raw nerves. “What’s so funny, mate?” he asks, grunting when Louis elbows him in the ribs. “That you couldn’t get it up or how you’re stuck inside that circle?”

Louis stops wriggling so suddenly that Zayn almost drops him, just as Joel lets out an angry scream, a proper bloodcurdling one.

“Shit,” Louis breathes.

“Yeah.”

“But then…”

“The circle can’t trap anything alive.”

Joel is still screeching and cursing, with significantly less skill than his brother, Zayn notes. He hopes they’re far enough from the nearest house for it to pass for a cat in heat or something, as opposed to a raging demon or whatever the fuck they’ve brought back.

“Now what?” Louis asks, a tremor in his voice.

“We have to figure out a way to reverse the spell.” Zayn closes his eyes. “I’m sorry, Lou.”

“It’s not your fault. This is all on me.” Louis laughs bitterly. “As always.”

Zayn shakes his head, starts to say no, they both agreed to this, but then Louis’ energy, that familiar reckless flare of defiance and heart that Zayn would recognise in a stadium full of people, flickers and dims as though he’s given up.

The circle of candles promptly follows suit, and Joel’s out before Zayn can even blink, a flurry of movement, rage and bared teeth. He crashes into them, and it’s like hitting a brick wall; Zayn’s thrown backwards with force that shouldn’t be possible. All the air’s knocked out of him as he hits the ground, half under the hedge.

His left shoulder is throbbing, and he banged his head pretty hard too. He’s so dizzy the thought of getting up makes him sick, so he curls on his side instead. It’s comfortable here anyway, the grass is soft; he needs to rest, just for a moment.

Then Louis makes a garbled sound, and Zayn’s eyes snap open, disorientation giving way to sheer terror. His brother’s mouth opens in a silent scream as Joel straddles his chest, hands around Louis’ neck. The huge silver ring on Joel’s finger catches the feeble moonlight, and for a moment Zayn just watches its dull, oily gleam, paralysed.

“You’re coming with me, ducky,” Joel says, leaning forward to bring his face closer to Louis’. Louis chokes, scratching weakly at his wrists. “I told you, I’m never letting you go.”

Zayn draws his knees up under him, biting back a pained groan; he’s got to be quiet. His vision swims, but he digs his fingers into the earth and pushes himself up. The world swerves sharply to one side, and Zayn closes his eyes, swallowing hard to fight the bile rising in his throat. The energy that’s always there, simmering just below the surface and as much a part of him as his heart and mind and soul, is gone. He goes cold with the realisation, desperately reaching deeper, seeking something, anything—a spark, a shadow of it, but there’s nothing, just darkness and fear and the sounds of his brother’s life being drained out of him.

His hand brushes something hard, solid, and Zayn pauses, pressing his palm against it before his fingers close around cold metal.

Joel doesn’t seem to notice him, too busy staring into Louis’ eyes, laughing gleefully as his eyelids start to flutter more and more sluggishly, lips turning blue. He doesn’t even turn when Zayn swings with all the strength he has left, silent as death itself.

Letting the pruning shears slip out of his hand, Zayn drops to his knees and rolls Joel’s body off his brother.

Louis blinks unfocused eyes at Zayn, then starts coughing, hands flying up to his throat.

“Aunt Lou’s going to kill us,” he rasps out when he’s caught his breath, glancing at the bloody shears.

Zayn covers his face with his shaking hands and laughs.

 

 

 

 

“He’s…” Niall stops chewing and carefully sets his half-eaten sandwich back on the plate. “You…”

“Brought him back,” Louis says.

“He was fucked up, though, like a zombie or something,” Zayn adds. “Tried to kill Lou.”

“So Zayn bashed his head in with Aunt Lou’s pruning shears,” Louis recounts.

“And now he’s…” Niall glances at the garden with wide eyes, then back at them.

Zayn and Louis nod in unison. Niall nods too; once, twice, three times. They all look like those fucking nodding dogs in the back of cars.

Niall had called the morning after, of course, but Zayn told him to stay away for a few of days. Just in case. The heavy, sickeningly sweet smell of the spell still lingers in the air, raising the hair on the back of his neck every time Zayn gets a whiff of it. Everything seems normal, though, disturbingly, confusingly normal, apart from the body buried under the rose bushes. If they felt anything was off, or they thought it was weird to find Louis in their kitchen, stuffing his mouth with cereal as though he never left, or that Zayn suddenly decided to move back into their old room for a while, Lou and Nick hadn’t mentioned it.

“More tea?” Lou chirps, stepping out on the porch. Her blonde hair’s pulled into a loose bun, held by something that looks suspiciously like a metal skewer. She’s wearing a flowy black dress with pointy lace-up boots, looking ready for a Victorian witch convention.

“Shall I prepare the carriage, Miss?” Zayn asks, and Lou gives his ear a playful tug.

The initial explosion of joy at seeing Louis again had turned to a flurry of activity, which still hasn’t died down entirely. Their aunt’s cooking something special, apparently, which sounded ominous enough, but when Nick put on _Fleetwood Mac_ andvolunteered to help, Zayn and Louis took refuge on the porch by tacit agreement. The fat grey tabby, one of five cats Lou and Nick let loiter around the house and eat their food, ran after them and is now napping peacefully in Zayn’s lap.

Niall joined them about fifteen minutes ago, and Lou put lunch on hold to make him a sandwich, because Niall’s always been her favourite.

“We’re good, Auntie,” Louis tells her, and she practically melts, skipping back into the house and humming along to _Dreams_ under her breath.

Zayn rolls his eyes with a smile, and Louis grins at him.

He’s showered and dressed in clean clothes borrowed from Zayn, and his smart mouth is still intact, at least, but otherwise Louis doesn’t look much better than he did two days ago. The bruise on his cheekbone hasn’t started to fade yet, even though Lou and Nick studiously pretend not to notice, and the light in his blue eyes hasn’t returned. He’s jittery, biting his nails all the time, a new habit that makes Zayn’s heart clench because he knows it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

“Who’s that?” Niall asks suddenly, stilling the rocking chair.

They follow his gaze to the garden gate, and there’s some guy hovering there, looking lost. His hair is buzzed off and he looks well-muscled, filling out a horrid tweed jacket quite nicely. He has the sort of puppy eyes that could probably get him anything he wanted.

“He’s fit,” Louis observes.

Zayn hums noncommittally, petting the cat; he is, but he’s not really Zayn’s type. Not that he has one, but like. Theoretically.

“Can we help you, mate?” Niall calls, and the guy looks at him, bewildered.

“I’m…er…” he says.

Zayn valiantly smothers a laugh; he’s a pretty decent person, all things considered.

Louis arches an eyebrow, and the stranger closes his mouth, looking dejected.

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” someone shouts. “I got lost, was looking at the wrong map.”

It’s a lean and lanky someone, all limbs and hair, and he collides with guy number one, nearly knocking him over; oddly enough, neither of them looks particularly surprised.

“Sorry,” he says again as he steadies the other bloke, voice slow and smoky like he’s half-asleep and not sure what he’s going to say until the words come out of his mouth, “my shoes are new, and it’s slippery here.”

The shoes are actually silver Chelsea boots, Zayn notices, biting back another chuckle. His gaze slides up, up, up still, and fucking hell, his legs are _long_. They’re squeezed into black jeans so tight Zayn can’t help but wonder if the guy needs lube to get in and out of them. A curious trickle of warmth settles low in his stomach at that thought.

“Your tongue’s hanging out of your mouth,” Niall informs him.

“Fuck off,” Zayn replies automatically. What in the name of Lancelot's wandering prick is this guy’s shirt? He squints, tilting his head. Are those…turnips? A turnip print shirt?

There’s a good width to his shoulders, though, and his hair tumbles down over them in waves, and it’s—Zayn doesn’t have a type, alright. But if he did, it’d be dark curls streaked with sun-kissed copper and gold, green eyes and pink lips and fuck, pink, _pink_ lips.

Theoretically.

“He’s started drooling,” Louis remarks.

Zayn gives him a dirty look but doesn’t deny it. His brother snickers.

“Harry, for God’s—” The first guy throws his hands in the air, looking like he’s about to cry or possibly chuck himself off a bridge. There aren’t any nearby, luckily.

His friend, Harry apparently, ducks his head, mumbling something that sounds like ‘just saying’.

The first guy glances at them.

“Hello there,” he says, with the sort of desperate determination Zayn’s only ever observed in exhausted parents of unruly children.

All three of them do that bloody nodding thing again.

The stranger approaches, dragging the other bloke along.

“To get this out of the way, my friend Harry here thinks that you, sir,” he points at Zayn, “have a face that must have been carved by…who was it, Harry?”

The tabby in Zayn’s lap lifts her head, intrigued.

“Rodin,” Harry supplies morosely, face in his hands. The tips of his ears are an interesting shade of scarlet. “Or mermaids, maybe.”

“Right.” The other guy nods. “Are we all on the same page?”

Zayn blinks.

“Can mermaids carve?” Louis asks.

“I mean, they’ve got thumbs,” Niall says thoughtfully.

“I’ve seen someone with no thumbs carve, and she was very good at it,” Harry says through his fingers.

“So it could’ve been thumbless mermaids who made Zayn’s face?” Louis considers it. “That would explain a lot.”

Zayn reaches out to smack the idiot nearest to him, which happens to be Niall.

“What’d I do?” Niall squawks.

“Zayn,” Harry repeats slowly, as though he’s tasting it. He drops his arms at his sides. “That’s a nice name.”

“I’m sorry, who are you, lads?” Zayn asks, sharper than he intends. The pretty one is ogling him, though, not even trying to hide it, and it’s putting him on edge.

Guy number one straightens up, flashing Zayn a grateful smile like he’s glad there’s at least one normal person there. Zayn’s amusement at the irony is short-lived, however.

“Detective Liam Payne,” he introduces himself cheerfully. “I’m looking for Mr Louis Tomlinson?”

Louis blanches, and Zayn fights the urge to stand up and put himself in front of him.

“Detective?” Niall enunciates carefully, like he’s not sure what the word means.

“Indeed,” Detective Payne confirms, producing a warrant card. This can’t be fucking happening. Harry coughs then, loud and fake. “Right, yes, and this is Harry Styles,” the detective adds dutifully, “investigative reporter and crime writer.”

“Wait, Harry Styles?” Niall’s face lights up, eyes round with awe. “I’ve read your book!”

“You have?” Harry beams at him, and damn it all to hell, he’s got dimples.

“You have?” Louis repeats sceptically.

“The one with the—the ritual murders and the sacrificial blades and everything!” Niall leans forward like he’s about to spring up and ask for an autograph, so Zayn subtly nudges him with his knee, almost toppling Niall to the ground.

Catching himself, Niall quickly schools his features into a mostly unconvincing neutral and starts rocking in his chair again.

“Yes, so.” Liam clears his throat. “Harry’s our consultant of sorts.”

“Really?” Louis studies Harry dubiously.

“Louis.” Zayn shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“So you are Louis,” Detective Payne establishes, sounding chuffed.

“Cheers, Zayn,” his brother grits out.

“You must be Mr Tomlinson’s half-brother, then?”

“Just ‘brother’ works,” Zayn replies in the most bored tone he can summon, watching him through half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t like this; he doesn’t like it one bit.

The cat lets out a shriek, disproportionately loud for her size, and the detective draws back, startled. Zayn shushes her and the tabby gives him a disdainful look, curling into a ball again.

“Of course,” Detective Payne says politely, eyeing the cat cautiously for a moment before turning to Niall. “And you are?”

“My friend, he was just leaving,” Zayn replies before Niall can open his mouth.

Niall looks completely betrayed as he stands up.

“Yeah, gotta head to work,” he grumbles, cheeks red with indignation. Zayn resigns himself to the fact that he’ll be feeding Niall for free at the pub for at least a week.

“It was nice meeting you!” Harry says, sticking out his hand to shake Niall’s. Niall takes it with a grin, his bad mood all but forgotten. “Where do you work?” Harry asks casually, as an afterthought; Zayn narrows his eyes at him.

“The grocery store.”

“Which one?”

Niall snorts, bounding down the porch steps. “The only one.”

“Could you spare me a moment, Mr Tomlinson?” Liam asks. “I’d like to talk to you in private, if that’s alright.”

Louis’ Adam’s apple bobs.

“What about?” Zayn cuts in.

“Just a few questions about Mr Tomlinson’s boyfriend, Joel Rogers.” Detective Payne props a shoulder against one of the porch columns. “A relative reported him missing, he seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.”

“You don’t look surprised,” Harry says, then gets on his tiptoes to examine one of the glass jar lanterns with childish delight.

Louis opens his mouth to respond, but Zayn interrupts again, “That wasn’t a question.”

He frowns at the journalist, who smiles serenely at him; his eyes look like green glass shards, clear and sharp.

“No need for lawyer tricks now,” Liam says, conciliatory. “We’re just chatting.”

“Oh, so you know Zayn’s a lawyer?” Louis chimes in. He seems calm, but Zayn knows his tells; his brother’s gripping the arms of the rocking chair so tightly his knuckles are turning white. “That’s nice.”

Zayn can swear he sees Harry raise an annoyed eyebrow at Liam.

_Easy_ , he thinks urgently, hoping they’ve still got it. _You haven’t seen Joel in days_ _._ _You left him. Don’t tell him anything else._

Louis lifts his chin in a minute nod, and it makes the knot in Zayn’s stomach loosen a bit. Setting the cat on the floor, Zayn stands up and wanders off into the backyard. Harry follows, twirling his sunglasses in one hand.

Heaped along the low wooden fence with no plan or pattern, the clusters of pink and buttercup yellow tulips make the garden look like a child’s watercolour.

“So, you know Joel?” Harry asks, bending down right in front of Zayn to admire the flowers, arse practically staring Zayn in the face. It’s a nice arse, objectively speaking.

“I don’t,” Zayn answers gruffly, looking away.

“But Louis has mentioned him, surely?” Harry straightens up and gives Zayn a smile, wide and friendly. “I know my sister hears more about my love life than she probably cares to.”

He’s good, Zayn has to admit. Charming. Innocuous.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Zayn stares at him silently. Harry’s smile sharpens a bit.

“When we went to look for him, Louis’ neighbours told us he left London in a rush,” he says, leaning on the fence. It’s almost cheesy how picturesque it looks, with the green fields sprawling behind him and the dull sunlight in his hair. “Did he and Joel have a fight or something?”

“You’re gonna have to ask them.”

“You’ve no idea why your brother fled London?”

Zayn holds his gaze. “That’s not what you asked, is it?”

There’s a hint of exasperation in the set of Harry’s eyebrows, and Zayn bites down on a smirk of perverse satisfaction.

Lightning quick, Harry’s face smooths again and he exclaims, “I love this song! You like _Fleetwood Mac_?”

Without waiting for an answer, he starts singing along to _Rhiannon_ that’s playing inside.

For a moment Zayn simply gawks at him, gobsmacked, then Harry attempts a falsetto, and Zayn decides he’s had enough.

“Does anyone actually fall for the featherbrained pretty boy act?” he asks brusquely.

Harry stops singing, right in the middle of a high note.

“People see what they want to see,” he hedges, taking a slow, deliberate step towards Zayn. His eyes trail up and down Zayn’s body, and he’s sure Harry’s being purposefully blatant about it, but to his chagrin it’s working; the back of his neck feels hot by the time Harry’s done.

They’re too close suddenly, the toes of their shoes touching as they size each other up.

Mouth curling into a slow grin, Harry starts to lean in. Zayn holds his breath, heart rate picking up.

“Your roses are dead,” Harry whispers against his cheek, like it’s a secret.

“What?” He whips around and his heart almost jumps out of his throat; instead of green leaves and peaches and cream rose buds, almost ready to bloom, there’s nothing there but sinister-looking dry branches, swaying sadly like skeleton fingers. “Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

The tabby trots towards them, but when she reaches the roses she freezes, arching her back. Ears flattened, she runs back into the house with a hiss.

Harry hums, brow furrowed, then digs a card out of his back pocket and holds it out to Zayn between two fingers.

“We’ll be around for a few days, Joel has family nearby. Cayton, I think.” Harry waves the card in his face until Zayn sighs and takes it. “Give me a ring anytime. If you think of something important, that is.”

He winks, actually fucking _winks_ , and yeah; this one’s going to be trouble.

 

 

 

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Louis props his hip against the kitchen island. “We probably damaged the roots or something.”

“Yeah.” Zayn feels even less convinced than Louis sounds, but it’s not like they can do anything about it now. Besides, magic always leaves a trace, and he’s not surprised the traces of what they did aren’t exactly good for the plants. “What did the detective ask?”

“About the, like, the drugs and stuff,” Louis mumbles. “And if I knew where Joel was. I told him we broke up days ago, and I haven’t seen him since. They’ve talked to Joel’s friends in London, who think his habit got him into trouble and he ran, apparently. To be fair, I’m shocked.”

“Why?” Zayn asks, pushing a plate full of Lou’s chocolate biscuits towards Louis. Food always helped calm him down, Zayn remembers. “You didn’t think anyone knew?”

“I wasn’t aware he had any friends.” Louis shrugs, biting into a biscuit. “He was a dick.”

“No shit.”

Louis looks pensive for a moment, before putting the half-eaten biscuit aside. “What he said, about you—”

“That thing in our backyard wasn’t Joel, Lou.” Zayn steals a glance at Nick who’s playing patience on the coffee table in the living room. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention, engrossed in his cards, but with Nick you never know.

“Nah, s’pretty much how he always was.” Louis scratches the edge of the counter with his thumbnail, not meeting Zayn’s eyes. “I don’t—I never even liked him much. Tried to kick him out that night, actually, but we were both so fucked it got out of hand. He socked me, and I kind of lost it.”

Louis is always so loud, his presence takes so much space that people don’t often notice he’s not a big lad. He does look it now, back hunched, voice breaking. Zayn pats his cheek gently, and Louis immediately squares up his shoulders, grinning at him.

“You and that journalist, then.” He makes an elaborate, decidedly obscene hand gesture, and Zayn huffs out a laugh.

“I mean, he’s fit. Obviously.” Zayn picks up a biscuit and nibbles on its edge, thoughtful. “Dangerous, though.”

“Yeah, that shirt was proper scary.”

“I’m serious, Lou.” Zayn looks out the window into the dark garden; the rose bushes wave at him with their dry, bare branches. Zayn averts his eyes. “Things could get really, really fucking bad. Promise you’ll keep your mouth shut and be smart, yeah?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Zayn.”

“All evidence to the contrary.” He softens the words with a half-smile, and Louis raises his eyebrows, as though he’s conceding the point.

“You can still shag him, though,” Louis says, shoving the rest of the biscuit into his mouth.

“Who’s Zayn shagging?” Lou asks from the doorway. She’s struggling with a big cooking pot, stumbling under its weight.

Zayn rushes over to take it from her. “Fucking hell, Lou, what do you need this for?”

He slams it onto the kitchen counter, panting.

“Sandy from my book club needs a hair loss remedy, and the spell requires a copper pot.” Lou peeks inside it. “My stars, this thing is dirty.”

“No wonder.” Louis eyes it curiously. “It was probably last used in 1860.”

“Nothing some good old manual labour can’t fix. Get on it, love, will you?” Lou smiles sweetly at him and Louis groans, but he trudges out of the kitchen, muttering under his breath.

Before Zayn can start gloating, his aunt spins around and jabs a finger into his chest, hard.

“Is he in trouble?”

“Ow,” Zayn says indignantly.

“Is he?” Lou repeats, unmoved.

Rubbing his chest, Zayn takes a surreptitious step back. The last time Lou got really mad, the water in the house ran blue for two days straight and they all looked like Smurfs by the end of it.

“We’ll deal with it, Lou,” he says lamely. “Don’t worry about it.”

His aunt stares at him for a beat longer before waving him off.

“Go help your brother, then.” She turns her back to him. “The Marigolds are under the sink.”

Zayn sighs.

 

 

 

Zayn closes the wooden gate behind him and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his battered leather jacket. The rain’s stopped, and the late afternoon smells of ozone and wet grass. Lifting his face to the dusky violet sky, he breathes deeply and lets the cool wind laced with a familiar tang of salt mess with his hair. High above his head, a falcon hovers in the air before soaring towards the thick, low-hanging clouds, their edges gilded by the setting sun.

He crosses the field behind the house, not minding the tall weeds and blades of grass snaking around his legs, heavy with the drops of rain still clinging to them. A cuckoo calls from the surrounding trees, and Zayn reaches into his jacket’s inner pocket for coins, smiling when he realises what he’s doing; Nick’s stupid superstitions must have rubbed off on him, after all.

“Fuck, fuck,” he hears a moment before a tall, lean figure comes into view, hopping across the field on one foot. “Bloody—”

Zayn watches in fascination as Harry tries to regain his balance, curls flying everywhere.

“Cow shit?” he guesses, chuckling when Harry swears again.

“No one told me anything about cows,” Harry complains. He points at his ruined boot dramatically. It’s a sickly beige suede thing, not the sparkly ones from yesterday. Zayn’s glad; he kind of liked those. “I have not agreed to this!”

He makes a futile attempt to clean his boot on the grass, whinging all the while.

“You know that’ll turn it green, right?” Zayn asks, perplexed.

Pausing, Harry fixes him with a betrayed look, as though he’s holding Zayn personally responsible for all his misfortunes.

Zayn rolls his eyes and strides past him, giving him a wide berth. A few seconds later he hears shuffling, hurried footsteps behind him and Harry catches up to him.

“Mate,” Zayn wrinkles his nose, “keep some distance, will you? You stink.”

He’s trying to wind him up, mostly, but Harry barks out a laugh instead, and it’s the most ridiculous sound Zayn’s ever heard. Harry’s face scrunches up, all dimples and crinkled eyes, and Zayn’s confused. He shouldn’t be finding it cute, he’s pretty sure. That’s not the appropriate reaction.

“What are you doing here anyway?” he asks, taking the cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Top secret police business,” Harry informs him with a lofty sniff.

Zayn exhales a cloud of smoke, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “You’re lost, aren’t you?”

Shoulders dropping, Harry heaves a sigh. “There’s not a single road sign around. How do you people know what’s where?”

“Living here helps. Were you snooping around?” he prods, taking a drag off his cigarette. Harry blinks at him innocently, and Zayn shakes his head. “I should leave you here.”

“Please don’t. I’ll probably end up with a broken neck in a ditch full of cow poo.” He gives Zayn big, forlorn eyes. “Think of my epitaph.”

The laugh escapes Zayn before he can stop it, just a tight huff of air in a curl of cigarette smoke, but Harry’s grin almost blinds him. Zayn nods at him to follow, and they walk together in silence for a while.

Zayn is surprised; he expected more questions or at least small talk, but Harry keeps his mouth shut and matches Zayn’s pace, shoulder brushing against his. The sleeves of his pearl grey bomber jacket are pushed up almost to his elbows, revealing a tangle of tattoos along his forearm, including what looks like a stark naked mermaid in staggering detail.

The cuckoo calls again, and Harry slips his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. Zayn ducks his head to hide a smile when he hears the jingle of coins.

The grass gives way to a dirt road that winds along the sharp cliffs where Zayn used to sit as a kid, watching the silver-blue waves crash against the rocky shore below.

Harry hums, slowing down a little as he takes in the view.

“You know, I’ve lived in London my whole life, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to lose my breath for an instant every time I look out the window,” he says. “Must be nice to grow up in a place like this.”

Shrugging, Zayn falls into step beside him. “London’s not a bad place to grow up either.”

Harry’s eyes flick to him for a moment before settling back on the sea. Unease crawls up Zayn’s spine like icy fingers creeping under his shirt, and he can’t help but imagine Harry reading his sad little life story, neatly tucked into a paper folder.

“Yet here you are,” Harry says quietly, long hair blowing about his face so Zayn can’t see it.

“Here I am,” he agrees, not offering anything further.

Harry doesn’t push, surprising him again.

The first houses emerge in the twilight like hunched ghosts, the distorted reflections of stone walls and slate roofs floating in the puddles of water. Harry’s boots click loudly against the cobbled street, making the rare passers-by turn to stare at them curiously.

“You staying in the B&B on the main street?” Zayn asks when they reach the pub.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine from here, thanks.” Harry studies the painted sign creaking on its post above their heads. “Why a cauldron?”

Swinging the keys to the pub around his finger, Zayn grins, tongue pressed behind his teeth. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Harry doesn’t reply immediately; his gaze drifts down to Zayn’s mouth, and the moment lingers—a crackle of electricity, the faint echo of doors swinging open and the heady, tantalising scent of possibilities.

“A challenge,” Harry says finally with a strange little smile Zayn doesn’t know what to make of. “I love those.”

Yeah, Zayn thinks, a little dazed; trouble.

 

 

 

“He was here yesterday,” Niall says, placing the crate of oranges he’s carrying on the floor. He wipes his hands on his jeans and turns to them.

“Who?” Zayn asks, distracted by Louis, who tosses four bags of assorted sweets onto the counter.

“Harry. Asked all kinds of weird questions. Told him it wasn’t a good time, but he just said ‘okay’ and wandered around the store for half an hour, waiting for my lunch break. Bought a fuckload of avocado too, for some reason?” Niall frowns, picking up one of the bags. “You’re not poisoning someone with sugar, are you?”

“I’m abstaining,” Louis says crossly, clutching half a dozen lollipops in one hand and a pack of sherbet lemons in the other. “From fucking everything. I’m practically a nun these days, I need a distraction.”

“Lou, we talked about this.” Zayn grabs the sherbet lemons and tugs. “Let me help you!”

“Let go of my bloody sherbet lemons, Zayn, or lose a hand.”

They glare at each other for a moment, before Zayn shakes his head and takes a step back, holding his hands up.

“Is everything alright with you two?” Niall asks cautiously.

Zayn gives him a _don’t ask_ look and Niall reluctantly closes his mouth, moving behind the counter.

He’d woken up in the middle of the night to find Louis curled up on the bathroom floor, shivering violently but with enough presence of mind not to make a sound as his tears rolled down his cheeks and seeped into the threadbare bath mat. In that moment, with the neon light over the sink buzzing like an angry wasp in the silence and the ice-cold tiles making his bare feet numb, Zayn had felt his heart split clean in two, and he doesn’t think it will ever be perfectly whole again. He sat there with Louis until sunrise, side by side with their backs against the wall, neither of them saying a word.

This morning Louis had avoided Zayn for several tense hours, before suddenly deciding that he wants sweets and Zayn needs to take him to town. He seems calm enough now, so Zayn decides to leave him be for the time being.

“Harry then,” he prompts. “What’s his deal?”

“Well, he’s twenty-five, he’s an Aquarius, and he has an older sister. Her name is—” Niall scratches his head. “Georgia? Gia? Hmm, slipped my mind.”

“What’s this, speed dating?” Louis quips.

“Gemma! Her name’s Gemma.” Niall shrugs. “We chatted a bit. He’s an alright lad.”

“He’s drawing you out.” Zayn unwraps one of Louis’ lollipops and pops it into his mouth.

“Hey, you’re paying for that!”

“Really, Niall?” Zayn lowers his eyelashes with a sad sigh. “After everything we’ve been through?”

“Fine,” Niall grumbles after a beat, like Zayn knew he would. “Take the damn lollipop, you manipulative bastard.”

“Why don’t I get free sweets?” Louis complains.

“Cos you’re a dick.”

“I’m paying for your shit anyway,” Zayn points out.

Louis makes a _fair enough_ face and saunters off.

“So, I guess Harry’s been talking to the locals. He mentioned the rumours. Ugh,” he says when Louis returns with a pack of liquorice sticks. Louis lifts a belligerent eyebrow and Niall bites back whatever he was about to say in favour of putting Louis’ purchases in a paper bag. “The whole witch thing, I mean,” he continues, scowling at Zayn when he twirls the lollipop in his mouth. “Mate, this is just obscene, you shouldn’t be allowed to do that in public.”

“I disagree,” a voice behind him says cheerfully.

Niall groans. “And he’s back.”

Zayn turns around and almost collides with Harry. He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth with a soft pop, and Harry’s eyes seem to go a little darker.

“You should definitely keep doing that, like, at all times,” he mutters, staring at Zayn’s lips shamelessly.

His hair is tied in a messy knot on top of his head, and it should be stupid, but Harry’s neck looks soft and a little vulnerable, and there’s a stray, wispy curl brushing his cheek, and Zayn just really wants to touch him. He won’t, of course, because that’s pretty much the worst idea ever, not to mention probably a bit creepy, but. Fuck, he wants to reach out and tuck that lock of hair behind Harry’s ear.

Harry’s wearing all black today, a fitted blazer over a silk shirt and a wide-brimmed hat in his hand. Zayn can see hints of ink peeking from under the open collar of his shirt, and a couple of hexagonal cut citrine and amethyst pendants are hanging from his neck on silver chains. It’s all very—

“Oh, I get it,” he sneers. “Fucking hilarious, mate.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“Where did you park your broom?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Harry asks, furrowing his brow.

“You’re the one dressed like a bloody witch!”

“Hey!” Harry pouts, and fucking hell, his lips. For one deranged moment, Zayn imagines dragging him to the back room and pushing him down to his knees, yanking the tie out of Harry’s hair to tangle a hand in his curls. He’d tilt Harry’s head back and tell him to keep his eyes open and look at him as Zayn fucks his mouth.

Something of his thoughts must show, because Harry’s pout turns to a knowing smirk. Zayn has the curious urge to bite it off his face.

Behind them, Louis clears his throat so loudly that they both flinch.

“This,” he says pointedly, waving a hand between them, “is also not to be done in public.”

Harry ducks his head bashfully, and it would have been far more convincing if he weren’t still grinning.

“Shut it, Lou,” Zayn mutters.

“Fine, go fraternise with the enemy.” Louis leans against the counter with an injured air. “See if I care.”

“The enemy?” Niall scoffs. “Look at him!”

“Well, yes, he may look like Morticia Addams and Hugh Hefner’s love child, but—”

“I’m standing right here,” Harry says.

“Yeah, about that.” Zayn folds his arms across his chest. “Shouldn’t you be looking for Joel instead of harassing my friends?”

He takes a step forward; Harry doesn’t budge.

“Harassing?” he repeats, amused. “Is that what I was doing?”

“Yeah, that’s a bit harsh,” Niall agrees, setting the paper bag on the counter. “Pestering, maybe? Annoying?”

“Cheers, Niall,” Harry says; Niall grins.

“Where’s your partner?” Louis asks, digging out the liquorice sticks and tearing into the pack. “The one with the muscles and everything?”

“Around. He wanted to talk to you again, so we’ll probably stop by yours tomorrow, if that’s okay.” Harry frowns. “You really gonna eat that?”

Louis practically growls at him, so Zayn subtly inserts himself between them.

“It’s fine,” he assures Harry. “Come by whenever.”

Harry nods, gaze zeroing in on something over Louis’ shoulder. His eyes widen.

“Your bag’s floating,” he informs them in his slow drawl.

They all look at it at the same time, and Zayn’s heart stops. The paper bag’s hanging in the air, swaying happily about two inches above the counter. He curses under his breath.

Niall moves first, slamming the bag against the till and half lying on top of it. When no one says anything, he laughs, high and strained.

A liquorice stick is dangling forgotten from Louis’ slack mouth.

Tearing his eyes away from the crushed bag, Harry fixes them on Zayn who just shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I see,” Harry says, and Zayn fears that he does indeed see, he sees a lot more than Zayn would like.

Harry stares at him for a beat longer before nodding at Niall and Louis and walking out of the store. The brass bell above the door tinkles in the thunderous silence.

“What the fuck was that, Lou?” Zayn asks, voice deceptively soft.

Louis gives him a guilty look.

“It was the liquorice, Zayn,” he says miserably. “That shit’s vile.”

Niall laughs again.

 

 

 

“Abstaining, are you?” Zayn mocks, leaning against the willow. The smooth pebble that’s been bouncing off the ground for the past ten minutes drops in the grass with an ashamed _thump_.

“It’s hard,” Louis groans, flopping onto the blanket under the tree, face first. “I don’t know how you did it, it’s like I’m missing a hand or something.”

The stone trembles again. Zayn lets out a frustrated breath and the pebble flies across the garden, smacking into the porch steps.

“Did you just throw a rock at me?”

Their heads swivel towards the porch where a puzzled Detective Payne is standing with his hands on his hips.

“Sorry,” Zayn calls. “Didn’t see you.”

“You look dashing today, Detective. New jacket?” Louis props himself up on his elbow. “Give us a spin, then.”

Liam cocks his head to the side. Behind him, Harry quickly turns a snort of laughter into a cough.

“Are you flirting with me?” Liam checks, confused; Louis smirks. Liam looks over at Zayn. “Is he flirting with me?”

“’fraid so.”

“Mr Tomlinson,” Liam says stiffly, “would you please come inside? I’d like to talk to you.”

With a sigh, Louis pushes himself off the ground and follows him into the house.

Harry joins Zayn under the willow and sits cross-legged, examining the thickly woven canopy of leaves overhead.

“Pretty,” he whispers.

The wind chimes clink softly above them; Zayn’s favourite smoky quartz spins on its string.

“What’s going on?” he asks, throat suddenly dry. “You find anything?”

“Not really. We went to talk to Joel’s family,” Harry says, fiddling with the tattered edge of the blanket. “They’re so sad, Zayn, it makes me sad too. Everyone was crying, and we just…we had to tell them we still don’t know anything.”

The knot in Zayn’s stomach tightens, and for a second he feels so choked up with guilt he almost misses the inquisitive glance Harry casts at him through the curls falling over his forehead; his eyes are clear and shrewd.

“You’re a twat, Harry,” Zayn sighs, tipping his head back against the tree trunk.

“You’re right, that wasn’t very nice.” Harry smiles, clearly not sorry at all. “Truth is, Joel’s only family is his sister, who doesn’t give a fuck about him. Said she hasn’t talked to him in years.”

“Wait.” He sits up. “The detective said his family reported him missing.”

“Well.” Harry shakes the hair out of his eyes.

Zayn frowns. “He lied?”

“Your newfound aversion to dishonesty is very refreshing,” Harry says sarcastically, then grins. “He’s not going to get anywhere with Liam, you know. Your brother.”

“Yeah?” Zayn says, momentarily distracted; there’s a pale ray of sunlight flickering in the corner of Harry’s mouth, and he wonders what it would taste like if he pressed his lips to it.

“Liam doesn’t swing that way.” Harry lifts a shoulder. “I’ve checked.”

“That so?” Zayn doesn’t like the sound of that, for some bleeding reason.

Inexplicably, Harry’s smile widens. “His partner, on the other hand—”

A piercing scream shatters the afternoon quiet, and a toddler darts across the backyard, little cardigan flapping wildly in the wind, like a miniature d'Artagnan brandishing a giraffe toy instead of a rapier.

His mum, a distraught-looking young woman whose name Zayn can’t recall, bursts out of the house yelling, “Tommy, get back here!”

Before Zayn can do anything, Harry’s on his feet, scooping the child up in his arms. The screeching intensifies, and Zayn has to remind himself that clapping his hands over his ears would be rude. Harry’s talking to the kid, though, quiet and serious as if they’re having an extremely important conversation, and the screams abruptly cut off.

“What have I said about running off like that, Tommy?” the woman says breathlessly as she reaches them. “Come here, let go of the nice gentleman.”

Tommy whines, clinging to Harry’s neck.

“I think he finds Tarot cards silly,” Nick laughs from the porch.

“Smart lad,” Zayn mutters.

“We can keep him company until you’re done?” Harry suggests, faking like he’s about to drop Tommy, who explodes into giggles.

“If you’re sure…” Tommy’s mum looks both relieved and dubious. “He can be a handful.”

“We’ll be fine, right, Tommy?” Harry smiles down at him, and Tommy beams back. Of course kids like him; Zayn feels irrationally annoyed.

As Nick and his client go back inside, Harry carries Tommy to the willow. He sits down again, looking pensive. Tommy’s playing with the necklaces hanging over Harry’s white shirt, pulling the silver chains so hard it must hurt, but Harry doesn’t tell him off.

“Do Tarot cards work?” he asks instead.

Zayn snorts. “Sure. They pay the bills.”

“The townsfolk seem to think you and your family are witches,” Harry informs him, eyebrows drawing together in thought. “Or wizards? What is the correct term?”

Shrugging, Zayn makes a silly face at Tommy, who gurgles happily.

“Apparently, you’ve got Satan chained up in your attic and force him to do your bidding,” Harry adds, seemingly unfazed by Zayn’s silence. “But Lou’s infusion cured Mr Jackson’s…erm. Well, he’s very thankful that he can sit and wear pants again, so he’s willing to overlook the small eccentricity.”

“That’s how things work in these parts,” Zayn says, trying not to sound too bitter. “They don’t like us, but if we’re good for something they’ll tolerate us.”

Harry hums, busying himself with Tommy’s untied shoelace.

“I’ve heard,” he murmurs, not looking up. “Your neighbour thinks burning people at the stake was a swell practice and we need to reconsider abolishing it.”

“Which neighbour?” Zayn asks, smiling when Tommy grips his finger in his little fist. “The one who looks like a gargoyle?”

“Yeah, him.” Harry frowns. “I don’t understand, Zayn. You had a chance to get away from these people who treated you like shi—” He bites his lip, glancing down at Tommy, and God, he’s absurd. Zayn kind of wants to kiss him, just a little bit. “Badly. They treated you badly,” Harry says primly. “I just…I don’t get it. Why would you come back?”

“Must’ve been homesick.” Zayn bends one leg at the knee and rests his elbow on it. Harry’s frown deepens, and Zayn sighs. “No, Harry, you don’t get it. London or this godforsaken town, the rules don’t change. I was the one who had to.”

He doesn’t know what makes him admit this, but Harry’s expression shifts into something gentler and maybe a touch sad.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says, lifting his eyelashes slowly. “Fuck those rules.”

Something warm and sweet spills inside Zayn’s chest. It’s a dangerous game, he knows; the gleam of quickly turning wheels still flashes in Harry’s eyes, despite the sudden softness around them.

“Uck rule,” Tommy agrees.

“Oh God, did he just—” Harry looks so horror-struck that Zayn bursts out laughing.

Thankfully, the cuff of Harry’s shirt grabs Tommy’s attention next and he starts chewing on it, distracted. Harry lets him, looking way too happy for someone covered in drool.

“And Louis? It’s the first time he’s been home in years, isn’t it?” he asks after a moment, in that almost vacant way he’s got that somehow tricks you into thinking his prying is perfectly acceptable.

“Guess he was homesick too.” Zayn throws him a wry grin. “It’s always work with you, innit, Harry?”

“His face was bruised,” Harry says, ignoring the gibe. “I suppose he walked into the garage door?”

Zayn’s smile slips, the telltale tingling in the tips of his fingers making him curl his hands into fists; he’d rather not take Harry’s head off accidentally. Not in front of Tommy, at least.

“You think this is funny?” he asks through his teeth.

“Do you see me laughing?” Harry gives him an unimpressed look. “It was Joel, wasn’t it?”

Spreading his hand open, Zayn silently studies his palm.

Harry mutters something that sounds like a curse, then purses his lips and looks Zayn dead in the eye.

“Zayn, did you or your brother kill Joel Rogers?”

Zayn’s heart leaps into his throat, pulse roaring in his ears.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, “a couple of times.”

Harry tilts his head, face unreadable.

Apparently disgruntled at not being the centre of attention, Tommy makes a petulant sound and smacks Harry square in the nose. Zayn claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, but Harry rocks the child in his arms, unperturbed.

“He’s just bored,” he defends, as though he’s not the aggrieved party here. “Do you have anything I can juggle with, perhaps?”

“Are you serious?”

Harry shrugs, carefully extracting one of his pendants from Tommy’s mouth. “It’s my secret talent.”

The wind chimes tinkle again, and something pushes at the back of Zayn’s mind once more, some fragment of a memory he grasps at but it eludes him, slipping back into darkness.

After a quick walk around the garden, Harry finds three shrivelled apples and amazes Tommy (and Zayn, alright) with his juggling prowess. He’s just added two walnuts when Louis and Liam come back out.

Zayn searches his brother’s face, but there’s nothing there; nothing but interest as he watches Harry.

“Can he walk on his hands too?” Louis asks.

Harry seems to consider it, without pausing in his juggling.

“I can try,” he decides.

“Please don’t,” Liam sighs.

Flashing him a grin, Harry catches the apples and walnuts in one big beringed hand.

Louis keeps staring at Harry with a strange expression, forehead scrunched up.

Tommy’s mum comes to collect him, and after some convincing Harry and the kid let go of each other and say their goodbyes.

“Well, thank you for your time, Mr Tomlinson,” Liam says, stalking off indignantly when Louis executes an elaborate curtsy in response. “Harry, let’s go,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Thanks, now I’ve got to watch him pout for the next hour,” Harry says reproachfully.

Louis has the good grace to look vaguely contrite.

 

 

 

 

Arms crossed, Lou looks between them with narrowed eyes.

“Which one of you is going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Louis and Zayn exchange covert glances across the kitchen table, heads bowed. It feels eerily similar to that time they were caught trying to turn someone’s portaloo upside down ten years ago, only less funny.

“Auntie—”

“Don’t ‘Auntie’ me, Louis Tomlinson,” she cuts him off.

“Lou, it’s alright,” Zayn tries.

“Is it? Why does my garden reek of nasty magic, then? Why is a detective going around town, asking about my nephews?” She slaps her palms on the table and everyone jumps, including Nick. “Why are my roses _dead_?”

The corners of Louis’ mouth turn down, and he looks so crestfallen he might as well have been wearing a neon sign saying ‘guilty’. Zayn catches his eye and shakes his head.

His brother gives a wan nod in return.

“That’s it,” Lou snaps. “You’re both grounded. Go to your room.”

“Lou!” Zayn spreads out his arms in a _what the fuck_ gesture. “You can’t ground me, I’ve got to work tonight.”

That gives her pause.

“Okay,” she concedes. “But you have to come straight home after work and continue being grounded.”

“That’s not how grounding works,” Louis protests.

“How does it work?” Nick perks up. “We’ve never grounded anyone before, this is exciting.”

“Everyone shut up,” Lou says. She points a finger at Louis and he recoils. It would be amusing, if it wasn’t so completely not. “I know you two did something, and if you don’t tell us what, don’t come back crying when this bites you in the arse.”

“Let’s all calm down,” Nick intervenes. “Lads, whatever it is, Lou and I will try to help.”

Louis bites his lip, averting his face. Zayn fixes his eyes on the table.

Lowering herself onto a chair, Lou sighs.

“Go, get out of my sight,” she says quietly, and Zayn’s throat tightens.

The walk up the stairs is silent and tense.

“What did Liam want?” Zayn asks once he’s sure they’re out of earshot.

Louis shrugs. “He seems to think I’m hiding Joel or summat.”

“Why would you be hiding him?”

“Honestly, Zayn, I’ve no idea. The man is like an overgrown, overeager puppy with nice biceps. He’s confusing me.”

“Maybe if you stopped staring at his biceps when he’s talking to you, he’d make more sense.”

“A fair point. Maybe you should consider keeping your thoughts to yourself, then, and stop filling my head with your wicked designs on the poor reporter,” Louis retorts, smiling sweetly. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m reluctantly impressed by how filthy you are, but I’m pretty sure I’ll start popping boners around him if you imagine him tied up to your bed one more time.”

“Oh my God,” Zayn groans, covering his face with his hands.

“I’ve never seen anyone’s ears turn quite that shade of red,” Louis muses. “It’s almost, like, maroon.”

“Leave me alone,” Zayn laughs helplessly, dropping his hands.

Louis gives him a half-smile, then leans a shoulder against the door frame, looking around their childhood room. Zayn doesn’t need their wordless conversations to know what he’s thinking.

“We can’t drag Lou and Nick into this mess,” Zayn says.

“I know.”

Louis suddenly goes rigid, his breathing stuttering. Zayn straightens up in alarm, placing a hand on his back.

“Did you take Joel’s ring off when we buried him?” Louis asks, each word cracked and crumbling and chilling Zayn’s insides more than the one before it.

“ _What?_ ”

Lifting a shaking hand, Louis points to his bedside table where Joel’s huge, ugly silver ring is glistening in the dying light.

 

 

 

 

There’s some rustling and shuffling behind him, and a moment later Harry says, “Budge up,” voice a deep, honey-sweet rasp like he’s just woken up. Something low in Zayn’s stomach quivers in response like a guitar string plucked just right, and fuck, it’s too early for this.

He doesn’t turn around but scoots over so Harry can sit on the rock next to him, resigning himself to the fact that his quiet alone time seems to be over.

In the grey morning the sea below looks opaque like liquid lead, the lace-edged waves washing against the shore. Somewhere deep below the surface, Joel’s ring is probably still sinking towards the dark bottom.

Harry plops down beside him, swinging his legs over the edge. He’s taken his shoes off for some reason, happily swaying his bare feet in the cold air.

“We’re thirty feet above the water,” Zayn says.

Harry has the audacity to stare at him like he’s lost the plot, his eyes almost teal in the scattered light.

“Yes, I can see that.”

His hair’s down, the ends wet, dampening the shoulders of his oversized cream-coloured jumper with some faded sports logo on it. He looks sleepy, warm and very…cuddly, Zayn decides, disgusted with himself.

“Your aunt made me eat chicken wings for breakfast,” Harry says, a little sadly.

Zayn chuckles, but he can tell there’s something bothering him. Harry keeps worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, brow furrowed.

“What’s it?” Zayn asks, poking Harry in the cheek with his finger, right where his dimple would normally be. Harry’s gaze flicks to him, surprised. “I don’t know why I did that,” Zayn admits, and Harry smiles slightly.

“I rang my mum this morning,” he says, pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his knuckles. There’s something so young and breakable about it that Zayn’s chest tightens. “She reminded me something funny I used to say as a kid, is all.”

“You look proper cheery,” Zayn remarks. “Must’ve been a cracking joke.”

Harry makes as if he’s about to kick him, pressing his toes against Zayn’s calf. There’s a wobbly line of words tattooed around each of Harry’s ankles, but Zayn can’t read them from here and he doesn’t want to ask. Maybe in a parallel universe somewhere, a Zayn who’s not cursed to lose everyone he cares about pulls Harry’s feet into his lap and traces the writing with his fingers. Maybe a Harry who’s not digging up shallow graves for a living tells him the long winded, rambling story behind the tattoos, forehead smooth and eyes bright and as young as the rest of him. It’s a comforting thought, in a curiously devastating way.

“So what was it? The thing you used to say as a kid?” Zayn asks, taking his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He doesn’t light one, just rolls the pack between his fingers.

“Oh, that.” Harry sniffles and burrows his nose into his sweater paws when the wind blows in his face. “That I was going to marry Stevie Nicks.”

Zayn’s not sure what to say to that, if he’s honest.

“Apparently I’ve always had a thing for witches,” Harry adds. Zayn chokes, and Harry peers at him through the layers of wool, eyes crinkling. “If I can’t have her, I’d be willing to settle, I guess.”

Zayn exhales a laugh. “Mate, is this you proposing to me? At least get down on one knee.”

“I don’t know, Zayn,” Harry says thoughtfully, “I’ve yet to see your magic.”

“Maybe I’ll show you some day.”

Humming, Harry lifts his head to look at the flock of birds flying above them. The wind tangles in his hair, whipping it around his face, but Harry doesn’t try to brush it out of his eyes. He squints at the sky as though it has the answers he’s looking for.

“Liam’s got a new case,” he says, swinging his legs in the air again. “I stopped by to say goodbye.”

Zayn doesn’t want to think too much into the way his heart slams against his ribs. He clears his throat.

“You going back to London?”

“Yeah. I suppose that’s not exactly bad news from where you stand.” Harry cracks a half-arsed smile; he looks delicate, almost brittle this morning, like a tender spot that makes you wince when you press your fingers against it.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Zayn asks again, the softness in his voice catching them both off guard.

Shaking his head, Harry scrubs his face with his hands. “It’s bad. The new case. Like really…really fucking bad. He doesn’t want me on it, my good, caring Liam. Didn’t even want to let me see the photos.”

“You wanna—like, can you talk about it?” Zayn starts to reach for him and hesitates, flailing for a second before laying his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry jerks, giving him an apologetic smile when Zayn flinches back like he’s been burned.

“Sorry, bit jumpy today. No, see, the problem is, I saw the file and wasn’t as upset as I should have been?” A faint upward lilt makes it sound like a question, but Zayn knows it isn’t, so he keeps his mouth shut. “Like, I could see it was bad, and I _was_ disturbed, just, not as much as I would’ve been a year ago.” He stares out into the sea. “I knew what I was getting myself into, doing what I do and working with the police. You’ve got to toughen up, because you see the worst in people every day. But like, what if—” Harry swallows audibly, fingers rubbing almost compulsively over the anchor tattoo on his wrist. “What if a year from now I meet a boy who smiles with his tongue pressed behind his teeth, and my heart doesn’t skip a beat because it doesn’t remember how?”

Letting go of a breath, Zayn reaches for him again and presses his palm against Harry’s, fingers curling around his. This time Harry doesn’t move, just blinks big, troubled eyes at him, and Zayn wants to pull him in and hold him close, and maybe kiss him until Harry forgets everything but the taste of Zayn’s mouth.

Then Harry’s leaning in, closing the distance between them until the tip of his nose brushes against Zayn’s, their lips almost but not quite touching, as though he’s waiting for permission. Something crazy is happening in Zayn’s chest, like there’s a frenzied bird trapped inside, struggling to break free. Heart thundering in his ears, louder than the waves crashing against the shore below, he tilts his head a little and suddenly the angle’s just right, their lips aligning. He can feel the flutter of Harry’s eyelashes against his cheek, senses steeped in his scent—a whiff of mint and crisp, citrusy cologne, and some darker, sweeter note underneath, like burnt sugar and _Syrah_ , and the smell of the air after a storm.

Harry sighs into his mouth, a small, contented sound. Zayn closes his eyes and leans into it—the feather-light press of lips, soft puffs of breath and Harry’s smile as he whispers, “Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“I have an hour before I have to leave.”

A little dazed, mind mostly blank, Zayn pulls back to look at him. “What d’you have in mind?”

“Fish heads,” Harry says, slinging an arm around Zayn’s neck.

Zayn laughs.

“Bit weird, but I’ve had worse.” This time he gives into the impulse to tuck Harry’s hair behind his ear. “Whatever gets you going, I guess,” he teases.

Harry muffles a scandalised giggle in his sweater paws, then springs to his feet, picking his boots up off the ground.

“What I mean is, you kinky fuck,” he cocks his head at Zayn who nods graciously like he’s accepting a compliment, “let’s go hide some fish heads in gargoyle’s garden shed.”

Zayn’s heart goes quiet and still, as if it knows everything will change with its next beat, and it does; he watches Harry pull his stupid silver boots back on, stumbling and hopping on one leg, and almost says something inane, like ‘Please take care of yourself’, or ‘I hope you have a good life’. He presses his lips together before he can do that and nods.

Grinning at him, Harry grabs his hand to pull him up. Zayn lets him, using the momentum to lean up and snatch another kiss. Harry laughs, giving him a few soft pecks on the lips in return, then says, “Oh, wait.”

He roots through the pockets of his jeans with a pensive little wrinkle between his eyebrows until he finds a coin. Taking a step back, he gives Zayn a small smile over his shoulder, then swings and tosses the coin into the sea.

 

 

 

 

Louis and Niall decide this means they’re off the hook, which calls for a celebration. They drag Zayn to a club in the next town and get him so pissed most of the night is a blur.

Yelling the lyrics to the god-awful pop song that’s playing, Louis shoves another shot in Zayn’s hand. The flashing lights are making him dizzy, beams of bright blue and neon green slicing through his brain until it feels like it’s going to leak out of his ears. Someone knocks into him and the drink sloshes over Zayn’s fingers. Everyone’s too close, and it’s so hot inside the air burns like fire in his lungs. It doesn’t matter, though, because Louis is happy, and Niall looks happy too, sprawled in their booth with some bird in his lap, so Zayn decides he must try to be happy too.

Louis knocks back his shot, slapping the empty glass on the bar, and he really shouldn’t be drinking, Zayn knows with some small, tragically sober part of his mind, but that doesn’t matter either, not right now. His brother’s laughing and dancing, arms and legs flailing everywhere, which, had Zayn been in any condition to film this, he’d have blackmail material for the rest of their lives. He joins Louis on the dance floor instead, so he really must be drunk.

A mop of curly hair and a pair of tight jeans catch Zayn’s eye, and he moves without thinking, pressing his back against the guy’s chest. Arms wrap around his waist without hesitation, a warm body with no face or name grinding against him, and it’s nice. It’s easy. It’s how it’s always been.

He lets his head fall back onto the guy’s shoulder and sways his hips to the throbbing beat of the music. It’s good. It’s what Zayn wants.

It’s all he’s going to get anyway.

Niall’s not snogging the girl anymore, Zayn registers, probably because he’s laughing too hard, and he’s holding his phone up, filming him and Louis from the look of it.

_Look at this little shit_ , he thinks, and Louis lifts his head like a dog that’s heard a weird noise. He spots Niall too, and the ensuing scuffle nearly gets the three of them slung out. They promise to be good, though, putting on their best innocent faces, so in the end the bouncer lets them stay with a good-natured huff.

“I’d want to get my hands on that video too, if I were you,” he tells Zayn and Louis.

Louis orders another round, handing the girl behind the bar a crumpled £20 note that probably came from Zayn’s wallet.

“Thank you, ducky,” he yells over the music when she pushes the drinks towards him, and for some reason Zayn’s skin crawls, but he’s too plastered to try and decipher the cold, slimy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Zayn surveys the dance floor, looking for the bloke from before. He doesn’t want to think right now, his head is starting to hurt. He needs to get off, probably, take the edge off. Maybe then he’ll be able to sleep tonight for a change.

There he is; he’s got a huge, shoddy tattoo on his shoulder. It looks daft, not even in the endearingly daft way that somehow, inexplicably, works, like a—well, say, a mermaid with her private parts on full display.

The guy turns around, grinning widely when he catches Zayn looking at him, and no.

No no no. Zayn shakes his head, stumbling backwards. His lips are too thin, his eyes are too blue, there’s no dimple winking cheekily at Zayn and just. No.

“What’s wrong with him?” he hears Niall ask, arm sliding around Zayn’s waist.

“I’m gonna—” Zayn presses a hand to his mouth.

Luckily, Niall manages to get him outside in time, remarking, “Feels like school all over again,” as Zayn throws up in a wheelie bin. He supposes it was Niall again who got them home, because a few hours later he wakes up in his own bed to the sound of Louis’ ghastly snores.

It’s early, way too early for him to be awake. The morning light filtering through the shutters is thin and bluish, and even the birds are still asleep.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, Zayn moans pitifully. He’s going to kill his brother and Niall, just as soon as he remembers how to use his limbs. Well, maybe not Niall. Him Zayn can turn into a slug or something.

His head is pounding as though someone’s hammering nails into it, and he curses Louis and Niall some more as he drags himself into the shower.

Two glasses of water, some _Panadol_ and half a cup of coffee later, he dares to open one eye and the headache’s dulled down a bit. Pulling up a chair to the kitchen island, Zayn sits quietly and stares out into the garden, letting the caffeine work its way into his system.

His phone on the counter buzzes, startling him. It’s a text message from a number he doesn’t recognise.

_What are you wearing? xxx_

Zayn frowns. Who the fuck was trying to sext him at seven-thirty on a bloody Saturday morning?

For a second a cold wave of panic sweeps over him, and he frantically tries to remember if he’d given the guy from the club his number, but no, that can’t be it. The guy was—or rather, he wasn’t. He—

Zayn rubs his eyes, then quickly types out a ‘pretty sure u got the wrong number, mate’ and tosses the phone back on the counter.

One of the cats, a sleek black beauty with green eyes, slips under his chair and starts rubbing herself against his leg.

“Give me a mo,” Zayn says, voice scratchy.

The cat snakes her tail around his ankle impatiently.

“At least let me finish my coffee,” he tries to reason with her.

She meows, implacable.

With a sigh, Zayn waves a hand in the general direction of the pantry without looking up, and a bag of cat food topples over, spilling all over the floor.

“This is your fault,” he informs the cat. She ignores him, running over to the food.

His phone vibrates again, and Zayn sets his coffee cup down to check the new message.

_I don’t think so? Sorry if I woke you up. You still in bed? ;)_

A little annoyed now, Zayn reads the text again and decides he’s done being civil.

_yeah ur mum says hi_

_Heey!_

Zayn barks out an incredulous laugh, almost dropping the phone.

_harry?? how did u get my number?_

_Niall. He thinks you need to get laid._

Well, there goes Niall’s pardon.

He shoots back a reply before he’s had time to reconsider: _u offering?_

_Mmm, maybe?_ Harry sends him a wink. _Gotta go, breakfast with my mum. Who’s definitely not in your bed, you twat. Talk again soon._

“Yeah, alright,” Zayn says out loud in the quiet kitchen, and why the hell is he smiling now? He rubs his face with his hands, and yeah, that’s definitely a full-blown grin there.

He growls in frustration, and the cat gives him a disapproving look with her green eyes. They’re almost the same shade as Harry’s.

“Eat your breakfast,” Zayn tells her.

Harry does text him again the next day, and Zayn stares at the photo he’s sent him for a full minute, turning his head this way and that. It looks like—is that a—

_why the fuck is ur bulldog wearing a tutu?_

_He’s my friend’s_. _I bought the tutu for him though, I think he likes it._

The dog in the photo is staring directly into the camera, looking mortally offended. Zayn guffaws so loudly a few of the customers in the pub start chuckling.

It’s not like he makes a conscious decision to keep texting Harry, not really. He simply forgets to stop replying.

Harry will tell him about the weird unsolved murder case from the 50s he read about, or the joke the barista in the coffee shop told him (which is not really funny but Zayn texts back an ‘aha :)’ anyway), or he just sends Zayn artistic shots of dustcarts, neon signs and a broken old world globe he found on the street. Zayn doesn’t know what to make of them, if he’s honest, but he always replies, even if he’s working and all he has time for is a smiley face.

Somehow, without meaning to, he starts sending stuff to Harry too—client stories, random thoughts, even a selfie once, which Harry seemed to like because he returned a chaotic string of emojis.

Niall looked so smug when he found out they were texting, Zayn had to smack him with the dish towel, but soon enough even Louis gets bored and stops taking the piss.

Speaking of, a large portion of Zayn’s texts consists predominantly of complaints about having to share a room with Louis again. He’s concerned, though, Zayn is; Louis doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat well, his hands shake all the time, but he still won’t talk to Zayn or let him help. Zayn can’t hear his brother’s thoughts anymore either, and he’s pretty sure it’s because Louis doesn’t want him to. It’s more than that, though, he seems…off. Like, way off, even for him.

_Off how?_

Zayn curses under his breath. He hadn’t meant to share this last bit of information.

He sees that Harry’s typing out another message, stops, then starts again.

_You’ll tell me if you need help, yeah?_

Sitting up against the bed’s headboard, Zayn stares down at the phone in his hand. His heart is acting funny, lurching in his chest like it’s trying to leap out. Maybe he’s just having a heart attack, Zayn comforts himself.

_sure, thanks mate_

He adds an ‘xx’ and sends it before he can lose his courage.

_Course. We’re friends, aren’t we?_

Zayn closes his eyes.

_are we?_

Harry doesn’t reply right away, and Zayn rolls onto his side with his arm under his head.

There’s an old, ratty tennis ball on the dresser, God knows why.

He only realises the ball’s started to bounce back and forth between the walls when Nick yells to him from downstairs to stop making such a bloody racket. Zayn lets the ball drop to the floor.

When his phone finally buzzes again, he can barely make his numb fingers work to check the new message.

_You working tomorrow?_

_yeah why?_

_No reason :) Night, Zayn, sleep tight xx_

Zayn bites his lip, slapping a hand over his chest in the hopes of scaring his heart into obedience.

It doesn’t work.

 

 

 

“What’s up with Louis?” Niall shouts over the music.

Zayn shrugs, taking the tenner a bloke at the end of the bar is holding up. The pub’s packed like it always is on Friday nights, with the locals stopping by for a drink after work to catch up on their gossip.

Bars and pubs used to make him anxious, back when he moved to London—too noisy, too crowded, but Zayn’s come to like the cacophony of sounds. These days the music, the glasses clinking together and chairs scraping against the stone floor, the rumble of conversation punctuated by an occasional burst of laughter feel a little bit like home.

Niall gives him a heartbreaking pout, and Zayn chuckles, sliding a pint towards him.

“You’re a good man, Malik.” He frowns, taking a closer look at Zayn. “Are you wearing your _fuck me_ jeans?”

Zayn hopes he doesn’t look as sheepish as he feels. “What are you on about?”

Niall doesn’t look impressed. “Zayn, I’ve known you since you were seventeen.”

“Drop it, will you?” he mumbles, cheeks hot.

Alright, so maybe he did spend an hour this afternoon agonising over what to wear and fussing with his hair, which is really getting too long now, but well, that’s no one’s business but his own. And it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Harry might be coming tonight.

He hands the guy with the tenner his drink, certain that Niall keeps sizing him up for a moment longer just to fluster him, before finally relenting.

“So, Louis?”

Zayn rests his elbows on the bar. “I don’t know, man, I’m worried. He’s acting weird. I wake up at night and find him standing over my bed, just, like, watching me.”

Niall makes a face. “I’d start sleeping with a knife under my pillow.”

“Honestly?” Zayn shakes his head. “I’m considering it. He was babbling something about a Blood Moon last night but didn’t remember anything this morning.”

“What’s a Blood Moon?”

“To muggles, it’s a total lunar eclipse.” He laughs at Niall’s eye roll. “We believe it’s a bad omen.”

Niall takes a huge gulp of beer and, wiping his mouth, gives Zayn a sly grin. “We?”

“What?”

“You said _we_. You’ve never said that before.”

“I—” Zayn breaks off, fiddling with the beer taps. “I did, didn’t I.”

Niall’s grin widens.

“Well, I just saw Louis going upstairs with some redhead. I reckon that might help.” He snorts, swivelling in his stool. “Speaking of, look who just walked in.”

Zayn glances up, and it’s Harry, of course, with his legs and hair and a sheer, barely buttoned yellow shirt with green splatters on it. The sleeves are rolled up over his inked forearms, and Zayn can see shadows of more tattoos under the shirt that he really, _really_ wants to explore, and Harry’s just so—

Harry spots him from across the pub; he flashes Zayn a crooked smile, and Zayn’s heart flips over.

“Mate, now I’m getting worried,” Niall says, cupping his hands around his pint. “Would you two just fuck already and get it over with? This is bloody painful to watch.”

“I mean, my room’s taken, apparently, but these tables are really sturdy,” Zayn muses.

He was just trying to wind Niall up, but now that he’s said it the idea lodges itself in his mind, leaving him a bit lightheaded.

“I didn’t need that mental image,” Niall complains.

“Hi,” Harry says in his raspy monotone, sitting on the bar stool next to Niall’s. His shirt looks almost fluorescent in this light, eyes sparkling and dimples a mile deep, and just. Zayn’s missed him.

He smiles bigger than he means to. “Hey.”

“Right on time,” Niall says. “We were just talking about you.”

Bastard.

“You were?” Harry leans forward and his shirt gapes open, his necklaces swinging around his neck.

“Yeah, Zayn, why don’t you tell Harry what you just told me.”

“Niall’s pissed,” Zayn declares, tearing his eyes away from Harry’s chest. “He was just leaving, actually.”

“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Niall-was-just-leaving,” Harry says. “What, that’s not his name?”

He starts giggling before he’s even finished the sentence, and Niall cackles.

Zayn shakes his head. “Don’t encourage him.”

Harry hmphs, lips twitching again, and he looks—he looks as happy as Zayn feels.

“Right, I’m gonna leave you lads to it.” Niall slides off the stool, grabbing his glass. “Have fun. And people eat on those tables, Zayn.”

“Sod off,” he replies amiably, then turns to Harry who’s staring at Niall’s retreating form in confusion. “What can I get you?”

“Whiskey, please,” Harry says, long fingers playing with a peanut from the bowl in front of him.

“Everything okay with work?” Zayn asks casually, stealing a sidelong glance at him. He knows Harry’s taken the case Liam didn’t want him on, he’s gathered as much even though Harry doesn’t really talk about work with him. He looks good, his usual cheeky self, but Zayn remembers the haunted look in his eyes the last time he’d seen him; it did something to Zayn’s heart, and the image seems to be etched upon it now. He never wants to see it again.

“Fine.” Harry shrugs, brushing the hair out of his face. “Alright. The usual.”

Zayn puts the drink in front of him and, after a brief consideration, he pours one for himself too. Whatever, it’s almost closing time. He knocks it back in one long swallow, eyes watering as the alcohol burns his throat.

Harry does the same and sets down the empty glass, licking his lips.

“Can I have another?” he asks, so quietly Zayn can barely hear him over the din.

Their fingers brush when Zayn refills the glass, and he can’t tell if the sparks skittering beneath his skin are electricity or his own magic or the whiskey, but it turns his legs to water. The lights flicker once, and Zayn braces his hands on the bar, sucking in a deep breath.

The corner of Harry’s mouth tips up, and he looks at Zayn knowingly before flicking the peanut at him; it hits Zayn in the chest.

“Behave,” he drawls. Zayn just rolls his eyes at him. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon,” Harry says suddenly. “Come by the B&B when you can, I wanna talk to you.”

Zayn arches an eyebrow. “You do, huh?”

Harry barks out a laugh. “That wasn’t a euphemism.”

“See, the thing is,” Zayn leans over the bar, “I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”

Smiling, Harry trails a finger down the inside of Zayn’s arm, then folds his hands in front of him.

“Well, you’ll have to find a way to keep my mouth occupied then, won’t you?”

Zayn’s breath hitches.

Harry’s leaving tomorrow. It would be harmless. No strings, no feelings. He’ll probably never see him again.

He almost asks, the words searing his throat like another gulp of whiskey.

Eyes dancing like he’s thinking about laughing again, Harry bites his lip, and Zayn has to look away for a moment before he’s short-circuited the electricity in the whole bloody town.

Setting a plate of chips on the bar, Linda gives them a wry look.

“Lads, tone it down. I’m having heart palpitations here,” she says. “S’not good at my age.”

Harry throws his head back and laughs. Gaze tracing the curve of his neck, the line of his jaw, the happy little creases around Harry’s eyes and the loose, easy set of his shoulders, Zayn thinks he’s never wanted anyone more.

The back door slams so hard the glasses on the bar rattle. A clearly furious redhead bursts in, making a beeline for Zayn. He has to stop himself from taking a step back, because there’s murder in her blazing eyes.

“You should keep your brother on a leash,” she hisses. “He’s lucky I didn’t cut his prick off.”

With that, she strides out, slamming the door again.

“Shit,” someone says.

Harry looks after her for a moment, then he turns his eyes back to Zayn but doesn’t say anything.

“I have to…” Zayn rushes around the bar. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He half walks, half runs upstairs, where Louis is leaning against the window, head bowed and a cigarette forgotten in his hand.

“Lou,” he whispers. “Louis, what the fuck happened?” When Louis doesn’t move, Zayn grabs his shoulders and shakes him roughly, suddenly seething with rage. “What did you do?”

It takes him a second to realise his brother is crying.

“I don’t know,” Louis chokes out. “I don’t—Zayn, she said I told her some fucking horrible shit, and I just, I don’t remember!”

Zayn pulls him into his arms, and Louis clutches at him, shivering so hard his teeth chatter. Zayn doesn’t know what to say; he has no words of comfort this time.

“I can lock up,” Harry says from the doorway, making Zayn jump. “Take care of him, I can handle things there. I used to work in a bar.”

“Thank you,” Zayn whispers, tightening his arms around his brother.

Nodding silently, Harry heads back downstairs.

 

 

 

 

It takes Louis almost an hour to fall into a restless slumber, curled up on Zayn’s mattress with his head under the pillow as though he’s hiding from a bad dream. Zayn makes sure he has enough space to breathe and lets him sleep.

Harry’s still there when Zayn goes downstairs, balancing a tray of dirty dishes on one hand. All the lights are off except for the ones over the bar.

“You really have done this before, haven’t you?” Zayn asks wearily, climbing onto one of the bar stools.

Harry sets the tray carefully on the countertop next to the dishwasher and smiles at him over his shoulder.

“Second year of uni.” He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Is Louis okay?”

“Nah, not really.” Zayn rubs his temples. He can feel the beginnings of a migraine building behind his eyes.

“Cash is in the till, and I took the rubbish out,” Harry says, instead of the empty ‘I’m sorry’ Zayn was expecting. Harry doesn’t seem to be in the habit of apologising for things that aren’t his fault; he’d rather try and help instead, and Zayn doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You didn’t have to,” he mumbles. Harry just smiles again, and Zayn blames the softness around his eyes for what he says next: “Thanks, babe.”

Harry’s face changes, smile slipping; he ambles over to Zayn and stops a few inches away. Hesitating, he chews on his bottom lip with a small frown, then exhales loudly and slots himself between Zayn’s thighs. Zayn’s stomach clenches so hard he loses his breath. Wordlessly, he spreads his legs more, and Harry relaxes a little against him. Bracing his hands against the bar on either side of Zayn, he bends his head.

“I really tried to convince myself this is just work.” He brushes his lips against the shell of Zayn’s ear, making him shiver. “I was ready to try and convince you too.”

“But?” Zayn breathes, turning his face into Harry’s hair. He smells good, that bloody citrusy cologne Zayn’s been dreaming about for weeks now, with a hint of whiskey and clean sweat. The urge to wrap his arms around him is almost overpowering; Zayn grips the seat of his chair instead.

“But you always know when I’m lying,” Harry says into his neck.

Zayn lets his head fall back. “This is such a bad idea.”

Harry hums, pressing a kiss under his jaw.

“It is,” he agrees. “You gonna fuck me or not?”

Zayn closes his eyes. He wants to push Harry against the wall and rip the shirt off him, wants to kiss him until their lips are raw, teeth and tongue and gasps for air, fingers leaving a trail of bruises like crocus flowers blooming through the melting snow; he wants it so much he’s dizzy with it.

Letting go of the bar, Harry cups Zayn’s face in his palms, and Zayn curls his shaking hands around Harry’s waist to pull him in. When Zayn finally presses their lips together, Harry groans, opening his mouth for him with a suddenness that leaves Zayn breathless.

It’s not gentle; it’s not new and slow and exploratory, and just a little awkward like it usually is when you kiss someone for the first time. Harry fits in his arms like he belongs there, mouth soft and pliant against Zayn’s, like they’ve done this a thousand times before. His fingers twist into Zayn’s hair, just this side of rough, as though he knows that’s how Zayn likes it.

Zayn slips his hands under the back of Harry’s shirt, head spinning as he finds the smooth, warm skin underneath. Burying his face in Harry’s neck, he mouths at the soft, sweet-smelling spot behind Harry’s ear, and Harry trembles, breaking away from him. His lips are swollen and wet, breathing gone shallow, and something inside Zayn exults with a possessiveness he hadn’t thought himself capable of.

“What do you want?” Harry whispers, tugging at Zayn’s hair.

“You.” Zayn kisses his cheek, then the corner of his eye. “Since I saw you at the gate in that hideous turnip shirt.”

“I love that shirt,” Harry protests. Zayn laughs, stroking the curls out of his face, and Harry instantly leans into the touch, eyes slipping shut.

“God, I wanna take you apart,” Zayn says, voice wavering when Harry makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “You know what I was thinking earlier, when you walked in?” Harry shakes his head. “How good you’d look, all laid out for me on one of those tables.”

When Harry opens his eyes again, they look almost black in the dim light. Slowly, he takes an unsteady step backwards until his hip presses against the edge of the nearest table. He hops up onto it and stretches back, propping himself up on his elbows as he smiles his slow smile, sweet and sharp and wicked.

Zayn stares at him, blood pounding through his ears.

“Like this?” Harry asks.

He doesn’t even know how he gets there, but somehow he’s leaning over Harry, pressing him down onto his back.

“Yeah.” He undoes one of Harry’s shirt buttons, then another, and Harry lets out a shuddering breath, almost but not quite a sigh, lifting his arms over his head to grip the edge of the table. “Like that.”

The shirt falls open and Zayn’s gaze dips to Harry’s chest, mouth quirking in a smile.

“A fucking butterfly.” He traces the tattoo with one finger; when he reaches the leaves inked just above the waistband of Harry’s jeans, Harry sighs again, hips bucking up.

Zayn rids him of his jeans and pants with an efficiency that has Harry chuckling, leaving him in nothing but his unbuttoned shirt. He’s all pale skin and dark ink, an impossible yet seamless, breathtaking blend of sharp angles and soft curves, vague lankiness lined with tight muscle. His necklaces are glinting in the hollow of his throat, hair a wild mess around his head.

If he were feeling more patient, Zayn would have wanted to spend hours kissing and touching and tasting every inch of him, following each line and learning every curve until Harry was weeping with need and begging to be fucked. As it is, he wraps a hand around Harry’s cock and gives him a few slow tugs, thumbing at the head. Harry’s stomach quivers but he doesn’t move, just watches Zayn’s hand intently, eyelids heavy. Zayn tilts his head at him, pressing his finger in just a little harder, and Harry makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a moan, wrapping his long legs around Zayn’s waist. He pulls him in and sits up to yank Zayn’s T-shirt off.

Arms snaking around his neck, Harry kisses the pair of red lips in the centre of Zayn’s chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers into his skin.

“Face carved by mermaids, was it?”

“You’re gonna be a smart-arse, huh?” Harry laughs, tucking his face into Zayn’s neck to lick a long stripe up the side of it. “Do you have anything?”

Zayn stills.

“Seriously?” Harry squints up at him.

“Upstairs, maybe.” He rubs his forehead with his hand. “I’m not actually sure.”

With a martyred sigh, Harry flops back onto the table.

“I think I’ve got lube in my wallet. No condoms, though,” he says, flushing a little at Zayn’s raised eyebrows. “It’s just, I mean, I can’t…without, you know.” He makes some obscure hand gesture that either means wanking or playing castanets. “Stop staring at me like that, this is your place, you provide the supplies! It’s proper hook-up etiquette.”

Zayn shrugs sheepishly, running his fingertips along Harry’s hipbones. “It’s been a while.”

Banging his head on the table in frustration, Harry starts laughing, and after a moment Zayn rests his forehead on Harry’s chest and joins in.

He almost thinks he could stay like this all night, just breathing kisses over Harry’s skin until sunrise, and Harry grows quiet under him, hands running up and down Zayn’s back. His cock is digging into Zayn’s hip, though, still hard, and Zayn can feel a damp patch forming slowly in his own jeans where he’s started to leak inside them. He pushes just a little, rubbing against Harry gently, mindful of the rough scratch of denim and zip and buttons. Harry gasps into his ear and arches into him, hips moving in tiny twitches that have Zayn grinding into him harder.

Tightening his legs around Zayn, Harry lifts off the table, rolling his hips in a way that almost has Zayn’s brain bowing out. It feels so good it nearly unravels him. Harry lets out a tender whimper, though, a raw edge to it that can’t be just pleasure, so Zayn grits his teeth and pulls back.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says, hands balling into fists on either side of Harry’s head.

Harry looks up at him sullenly, lips red and puffy, and Zayn can’t resist dipping his head to kiss him again, licking his mouth open. Harry lets him in easily, curling his tongue against Zayn’s for a breathless moment before drawing back.

Zayn blinks at him in confusion. “What?”

“I’m clean,” Harry says slowly.

“Good for you?”

“Zayn, this is kind of an emergency. Can you focus, please?” Harry gives him a disgruntled look. “I said I’m clean.”

“You’re also a prat, Harry,” Zayn offers dryly. “Your turn again?”

Harry snorts.

“Are _you_ clean?” he asks pointedly.

It does take him a second, admittedly, but all his blood’s in his dick, so.

“Harry, no.” He backs away, shaking his head.

“You’re not?”

“’Course I am.” Zayn glares at him, which isn’t easy because Harry’s all tousled hair and long limbs, and he’s so pretty it breaks Zayn’s heart a little. “You barely know me, though, I could be lying. You could be lying too, for all I know.”

Harry sits up, looking so hurt that Zayn immediately turns contrite, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

“I know you’re not, babe, but we’ve done enough stupid shit for one night.” He sweeps his thumb along Harry’s bottom lip, and the tip of his tongue darts out to brush gently against the pad of Zayn’s finger. As signs of forgiveness go, this one’s a little unconventional but Harry smiles at him, and Zayn can’t help but smile back.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Harry admits, contemplative, and bites Zayn’s thumb lightly. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Harry…”

“I want you.” He lifts his eyes to Zayn, bright and wide and just a touch wistful. “I want you all the time.”

His teeth graze Zayn’s finger again, mouth warm and plush and wet, and Zayn doesn’t know if it’s that or Harry’s words, sinking deep into his heart like wood splinters, but his knees almost buckle.

He doesn’t remember moving, but then they’re kissing again, deep, messy, all teeth and spit, his tongue pressing into Harry’s mouth as Harry undoes his jeans with shaky fingers. Somehow they manage to find the sachet of lube without breaking the kiss, but then Harry shoves a hand down Zayn’s jeans to take his cock out, and Zayn tears the sachet open too abruptly, dripping lube onto Harry’s stomach. Harry hisses, jumping a little, and Zayn slides his fingers down Harry’s abs and over his ribs, making an even bigger mess, and they’re laughing too hard to keep kissing.

Zayn works him open with quick fingers, and Harry squirms and wriggles under him, rocking against his hand with increasingly louder groans of ‘God, yeah, there’ and ‘fuck, another, please’ until Zayn has to silence him with another kiss.

Harry’s skin is glowing against the polished wood, knees bent and feet flat on the table, and when Zayn twists his wrist again and licks the sweat from Harry’s neck, mouthing his way down his chest, Harry starts to make these choked-off little noises, like he’s trying to keep himself quiet but can’t quite manage. They seep into Zayn’s veins like alcohol, fogging up his mind.

When he can’t wait any longer, jeans pushed down to his thighs, he hooks his arms under Harry’s knees and pulls him to the edge of the table, easing into him. Exhaling sharply, Harry digs his fingers into Zayn’s arms to draw him down against him, and Zayn goes, bracing a hand on the table next to Harry’s head. He pushes in deeper, and Harry breathes out a curse, biting Zayn’s shoulder.

“Alright, babe?” Zayn manages and Harry nods jerkily, rocking his hips. Zayn can feel him opening up for him inch by inch, achingly slow, his breath hot on Zayn’s neck, and everything goes a bit hazy, edges blurring as Zayn’s eyes lose focus.

Every cell in his body seems to be straining to get closer to Harry, press against him, sink inside him, melt and fuse and bleed together until they’re nothing but a shared bloodstream pulsing with need.

He hears his name as if from afar, over and over, like a chant from an old spell book, then Harry whispers, “Oh God,” and Zayn’s all the way in, losing his breath, nearly losing his mind too.

He draws his hips back and thrusts into Harry again, and Harry wraps a hand around himself, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at me,” Zayn says through his teeth. Harry does, eyes glazed over, red lips parted, and it’s almost enough to make Zayn lose it.

Lifting Harry’s legs around his waist, he fucks into him so hard that Harry shifts up the table, his head hanging over the edge. Harry laughs, a breathless, joyful sound, honest and shameless and unapologetic, and Zayn wants to inhale it from Harry’s mouth and hold it in his lungs until it makes him lightheaded.

He puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder to pin him down, and he suddenly goes soft and pliant under Zayn, a long, perfect line of skin, bared throat and heaving chest.

“Close,” he whispers after a minute, or maybe ten, fisting himself faster.

Zayn nods; a drop of sweat rolls down his cheek, lingering in the corner of his mouth. Harry lifts his head to catch it on his tongue, then lets go of his cock, hands scrabbling at the smooth surface of the table as Zayn slams in harder.

The lights flicker again, something crashes to the floor and the sound of shattering glass fills Zayn’s ears, and he knows he’s doing this but he can’t slow down, can’t stop. He can’t feel his legs anymore, doesn’t know if he’s still breathing or not, there’s nothing but Harry—the strangled little grunts he’s making deep in his throat and the heat of him under Zayn’s palms.

Choking out his name, Harry spreads his arms and curls his fingers around the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. His eyes are dark and wild, face flushed and beautiful, so fucking beautiful that Zayn tries to keep his eyes open, to memorise each freckle and eyelash for later, when Harry’s gone and the empty spaces inside Zayn gape like open wounds.

He leans down to kiss Harry’s slack mouth, shifting the angle, and Harry arches his back with a gasp.

“Zayn,” he pants against his mouth, “fuck, I’m gonna—”

He freezes, going so still that Zayn almost stops moving too, but then Harry clenches around him so tightly that Zayn sees white, and he comes hot and hard between them. Zayn fucks him through it until Harry goes lax and quiet under him, his own orgasm sneaking up on him so Zayn can’t pull out in time. Hips stuttering, he slides his hands up Harry’s arms and threads his fingers through his, coming deep inside him with a low moan.

A light bulb bursts, scattering glass shards everywhere.

Their eyes catch and hold as Zayn shivers helplessly against him, pressed in so deep that it must be uncomfortable for Harry now. Face a mosaic of shadows under the flickering lights, he holds Zayn close with his legs around his waist, never looking away.

Zayn’s head feels so heavy he can barely lift it, and he just wants to curl around Harry, give into the weight of his eyelids and sleep for days. Harry’s still staring at him, though, a loose, silly smile spreading across his face, so Zayn pulls out gently and kisses him again, long and slow and sweet, until Harry laughs and pushes at his chest.

“Zayn,” he says, voice ruined, “I’m starting to leak.”

Zayn breaks away from him, making a face. “Sorry about that, I meant to—”

“It’s alright.” Harry perches on the edge of the table, cross-legged, and yeah, he’s definitely leaking. “I’ve never actually—oh. Fuck, that feels weird.” He slips his hand between his legs, and Zayn quickly averts his eyes before he does something stupid, like get hard again or faint, possibly.

“You’re probably gonna have to burn this table, though,” Harry says, and he sounds a little breathy again.

Zayn sneaks a glance at him as he buttons his jeans back up, and he’s—God, Harry’s dipping a finger into himself, his face a ridiculous mix of amused and fucked out.

“You keep that up and you’ll get even dirtier in a minute,” Zayn promises darkly.

Harry’s mouth curls into a filthy little grin, eyes half-lidded. “Is that supposed to make me stop?”

Shaking his head, Zayn throws a clean cloth at him, and Harry catches it with an eye roll.

“I’d let you use the shower upstairs, but—”

“Stop fussing,” Harry says, holding his arms out.

Zayn shouldn’t. He should most definitely not lift himself onto the table, kicking his boots off, or draw Harry’s head down onto his shoulder, fingers tangling in his soft curls. He needs to see him out, get dressed and return to his life the way it was before; the way it will be again tomorrow, when Harry goes back to London for good.

He’ll do that in a minute, Zayn decides, kissing the top of Harry’s head.

“Look at this mess,” he mutters, surveying the damage. The pub looks like a raging tornado had swept through, overturned chairs and broken glass strewn about the floor.

Harry mumbles something into his neck.

“What?”

“That was fucking insane,” Harry repeats. “Was that, I mean, is it always—” He huffs. “Never mind.”

“Oh, you’re getting shy on me _now_?” Zayn flicks his nipple, and Harry grunts but doesn’t move. He’s still wearing the unbuttoned sheer shirt, now creased and wrinkled. “No,” Zayn adds more quietly, “it’s never like this.”

Harry cracks one eye open and gives him a small smile. Zayn smiles back, trailing his fingers down Harry’s chest, then does a double take.

“Nipples,” Harry says.

“You’ve got four of them?” Chuckling, Zayn rubs his palm over one, and Harry purrs like the grey tabby. He covers Zayn’s hand with his, guiding it to the other side of his chest.

“This one too, please.”

Zayn laughs and obliges, petting him softly.

And that’s when it hits him, like a kick in the heart.

He jumps off the table so quickly it takes Harry a moment to realise he’s gone.

“Zayn?”

Legs almost giving out, Zayn slumps against the wall and stares at Harry without blinking. He’s pretty sure he stepped on a glass shard, but he can’t feel anything, nothing but the ache behind his breastbone and the stinging in his eyes.

“Zayn,” Harry starts carefully, sitting up, “do you have a nipple phobia I just triggered?”

The pile of dirty dishes behind the bar shivers ominously, clattering against the tray. Harry holds up his hands and stands up slowly, gloriously naked, and all Zayn wants is to kiss him and hold him and never let go. And that’s just it.

He did this.

Harry edges closer, stepping over the broken glass. “Zayn, fuck, you’re bleeding.”

Zayn follows his worried gaze to his bare feet, and oh. Yeah, he is, Zayn decides, strangely detached.

“Talk to me, please?”

He fucking did this.

“You wear sparkly boots,” Zayn says, voice faltering, “and your eyes are green as frogs.”

The crease between Harry’s eyebrows deepens. “That’s…very romantic, Zayn.”

“You’re kind, you have four nipples and you can juggle, Harry!” Zayn laughs, sudden and hysterical, burying his face in his hands. “You can fucking juggle.”

Harry touches his arm, and Zayn yanks it away.

“What’d I do, Zayn?” Harry asks, dropping his arms at his sides, and his eyes are big and beautiful and so full of hurt that Zayn wants to howl.

“No.” He shakes his head, reaching for Harry before thinking better of it. “No, this is my fault. I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll just go.”

“Go?” Harry flinches as if Zayn’s slapped him, cheeks going pink. “This is your place, Zayn. I’ll go.”

He needs—there’s no air, Zayn thinks with a rush of panic, pressing a hand to his chest.

With his back to him, Harry grabs his jeans from the floor and pulls them on clumsily, then bends down to put his boots on. When he’s done, he pauses, head bowed.

“Can you at least tell me why?” he asks, without turning around.

Dizzy with the short, shallow breaths he’s taking, Zayn squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t do this, not right now.

“Alright then,” Harry says, cold and polite, and it tears a hole through Zayn’s heart. “I still need to talk to you before I leave, though, so please stop by tomorrow.”

“Harry,” Zayn breathes.

Harry straightens up to look at him, but Zayn doesn’t know what to say, has nothing but empty, worthless words: ‘You deserve something better, something real,’ and ‘The curse will kill you, and I won’t be able to live with that’.

Then Harry’s walking away, the door quietly clicking shut behind him, and Zayn slides down to the floor. Eyes fixed on the door, he stays there until the fading sky outside splits open and bleeds out.

 

 

 

He scrubs the floor and polishes the tables, one of them twice, even though he’s already decided he’ll move it to the back room later. He’s stacking the dishwasher when Louis comes downstairs.

“Coffee?” he says, yawning.

Nodding at the coffee pot, Zayn looks at his brother as he fills a mug and flings himself into a chair.

“You alright, Lou?”

“Yeah.” Louis takes a gulp of coffee and scalds his tongue, yelping. Zayn snorts and Louis narrows his eyes at him. “Are _you_ alright?”

“Sure.” He shrugs and starts rearranging the glasses in the dishwater for the third time. “Why?”

“You look like shit.”

The door flies open and Niall barrels in, face red and shirt buttoned askew.

“Coffee,” he sputters. “Someone please give me coffee! I’m late for work again.”

Wiping his hands on the dish towel, Zayn points at the coffee pot again.

Niall sits at the table across from Louis and downs half the mug in one go, then bellows and sticks out his tongue, panting like an old Saint Bernard dog. Zayn shakes his head, hopelessly endeared.

Abruptly, Niall stops cursing and frowns at Zayn. “You okay, mate? You look like shit.”

Louis snickers.

With a sigh, Zayn pulls up a chair and sits down with them.

“Harry and I…” He trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. “Well, we sort of—”

“Shagged,” Louis supplies. “The whole town heard. I’m surprised this place is still standing, to be honest.”

Niall cackles like a maniac, and Zayn absently wonders why the ground won’t just crack open and swallow him whole.

“Well, that’s good, yeah?” Niall claps his back. “You’ve been pining for the lad for weeks. Why do you look like someone ran over a puppy?”

“Yeah, Zayn.” Louis rocks back in his chair. “Don’t tell me he’s got one of them worm-like willies?”

“He doesn’t,” Zayn says, eyeing him wryly.

Niall looks mildly disturbed. “Worm-like? Is that a thing?”

“Sure it is.”

“You would know,” Zayn scoffs, ducking to avoid a swing aimed at his head. Louis leaps over the table to get to him, and Niall calmly moves his mug out of the way. “Truce, truce!” Zayn yells, laughing.

Louis hesitates, and Zayn immediately kicks him in the shin. Louis erupts in indignant wails, which Zayn takes advantage of, pushing him back in his chair and twisting Louis’ arms behind him.

“I’d forgotten what a dirty-playing shit you are.” Louis gives him a nasty look over his shoulder.

“Enough now, for real,” Zayn chuckles, trying to catch his breath. Louis pouts. “Lou, listen. Remember that spell I did when we were kids? The _Amas Veritas_?”

“Oh, you finally figured it out, then.” Louis sits back in his chair, toasting him with his coffee mug when Zayn releases his arms. “Took you long enough.”

Zayn gapes at him. “You knew?”

“’Course we knew,” Niall says.

“We?” Zayn’s head swivels between them. “You…how? I never told you about that, Niall! And since when is there a ‘we’?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Louis says, awfully condescending.

“Yeah, you found your soulmate or true love or whatever,” Niall agrees. “Cheer up!”

“Cheer up?” Zayn slams his fist on the table and the coffee mugs bounce. “This isn’t real, it’s magic! I literally…I—“

“Put a spell on him?”

“ _Lou._ ”

“What? You were thinking it!”

Groaning, Zayn presses his forehead to the table.

“Zayn,” Niall says sternly, “pull yourself together, man. You and Harry are going to get married and have ten kids and live till you’re a hundred and twenty and still disgustingly in love. Louis, tell him.”

“What he said. Or at least fuck each other’s brains out until the spell wears off.”

“Exactly,” Zayn says through his teeth. “This isn’t real!”

“Er,” Niall says. “Zayn, your windows are washing themselves. Someone may find that weird.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Zayn replies, rubbing his eyes.

“Stress cleaner, my brother.”

“So he’s practising again?”

“Yeah, doesn’t even realise it most of the time.”

“I’m still here.” Zayn lifts his head to glare at them.

“What would people say, Zayn?” Louis asks, pitching his voice higher like an old gossip.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Zayn repeats, dangerously low. The rag dips into the bucket so violently it splashes soapy water everywhere. “If they don’t like it, they can bloody well stay away from my pub.”

“Interesting,” Niall comments, staring at Zayn like he’s a particularly promising fruit fly lab specimen.

“Told you,” Louis sing-songs.

“I liked it better when you two hated each other,” Zayn says.

Louis sighs. “Zayn, do you like the guy?”

“Yeah.” Zayn bangs his head against the table. “Yes.”

“Then of course it’s fucking real!” Louis shoves his shoulder. “What’s your problem? He’s clearly arse over tit for you, he’s been texting you non-stop for weeks and putting up with your musings about the universe, _Iron Man_ , the welfare system and fucking koi ponds! It’s kind of nauseating, really.”

“Hey.”

Louis just waves a hand at him and catches Niall’s eye like he’s saying, _do_ _you see this_?

“Nauseating,” Niall confirms, slurping his coffee loudly. “Zayn, just go be happy for once, you stubborn wanker.”

“It’s too late for that now,” Zayn mumbles, blinking up at the ceiling.

“What did you do?” Niall pokes his cheek with his finger, none too gently. “Zayn, what did you do?”

Staring mulishly at the wood beams, Zayn shakes his head. “I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“To him?” Louis drops the front legs of his chair back on the floor. “It’s him you’re worried about?”

“Of course I am, he’s—” Zayn cuts himself off, eyes widening. “Oh fuck.”

Face splitting into a grin, Louis jumps to his feet and reaches over to ruffle Zayn’s hair. “They grow up so fast.”

Zayn groans again.

 

 

 

“You do this often, then?”

It’s meant as a joke, but Harry purses his lips, clearly still mad. Zayn can’t say he blames him.

“No,” he says curtly, stepping aside to let Zayn in.

The room is small and smells of dust, with a narrow bed and a scuffed desk in front of the open window, with two armchairs that look like torture devices with loud, garish upholstery around it. There’s a holdall spilling clothes on one of them and several notebooks left open on the bed, along with a laptop and a couple of hardcovers.

The yellow shirt with green splatters is thrown over the bed frame. Swallowing the lump suddenly lodged in his throat, Zayn looks away.

“Never pegged you for a slob,” he says, sitting in the armchair that’s mostly free of Harry’s shit.

Harry stands in the middle of the room somewhat stiffly, like he really isn’t used to having people around when he’s working.

“I’m not,” he objects, moving the holdall to the foot of the bed. Zayn lifts his eyebrows, and Harry’s mouth quirks in a reluctant smile. “Maybe a bit.”

He’s slightly dishevelled, wearing joggers and a white T-shirt that’s straining across his shoulders, his hair tousled and feet bare, and Zayn licks his lips, mouth going dry as he stares at him.

“Tea!” Harry blurts, startling him. “Sorry, I mean, do you want a cup of tea?”

“M’good, Harry.”

“No, it’s alright. Just a second.” He spins around in a circle until he locates his shoes, then shuffles down the stairs.

Left alone in the room, Zayn rubs the back of his neck with a sigh. His whole body throbs like one giant ache, and to top it off, over the past few hours he’s stressed himself enough to feel the tension in his bones, debating whether he should come here or not.

There’s a stack of folders piled precariously on the edge of the desk, and they all look very official and confidential, so of course they rouse Zayn’s bloody curiosity immediately.

His fingers start itching; Zayn pushes his hands under his thighs and sits on them. A piece of paper slides from the pile, however, fluttering to the desk, right in front of him. Zayn can’t be blamed if Harry’s stuff just falls out of everywhere.

It’s a page ripped from a notebook, filled with a dissonant mess of handwriting. Some of the letters are big and bold, others—barely legible scribbles, blocky print and flowery squiggles. Zayn runs his hand over it. He can imagine Harry with a thoughtful wrinkle between his eyebrows, chewing the top of his pen, hair pulled back with the pink hair tie he’s apparently nicked from a friend’s daughter.

_Murder weapon_ he’s written at the top of the page, with three question marks next to it.

_Wife’s bank account_ , the next line says, and below it is a bulleted list with autopsy findings in macabre detail.

Zayn leans back in his chair. He tries to reconcile this Harry with the boy who laughed so hard while stuffing salmon heads behind his neighbour’s lawnmower he almost had an asthma attack. It’s not that difficult, surprisingly.

There’s a shopping list in the bottom right corner, and on the back of the page Harry’s jotted down some random, jumbled words that look like run-of-the-mill spell ingredients and legend and lore, as if he was _Googling_ Witchcraft 101.

Brushing the tips of his fingers over Harry’s handwriting, Zayn smiles, then tucks the paper back into the pile.

The edge of a photograph is sticking out of the top folder. Zayn hesitates before pulling it out, and Joel glares at him from the photo.

By the time Harry returns, balancing a cup of tea in each hand, the folder lies closed on the desk in front of Zayn, and he’s looking out the window into the small, muddy backyard. The shabby white curtains are swaying gently in the wind, letting in the smell of salty air and rain.

Harry silently sets one of the cups next to Joel’s file, then sits in the other armchair across from Zayn.

“So,” Zayn murmurs, tracing a finger around the rim of the tea cup, “I take it I was meant to see this?”

Harry’s poker face isn’t very good. Or maybe he just doesn’t like lying to Zayn; he would like to think that.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry says, not meeting his eyes.

Zayn nods at the folder. “Joel really was in some deep shit when he disappeared, wasn’t he? And he was, what, your informer?”

“Not mine.” Harry makes a face, brushing an imaginary fleck of dirt off the thigh of his joggers. “I’m not allowed to discuss this with you.”

“You haven’t said a word.” Zayn drums his fingers on the desk. “Are you trying to freak me out so I smoke Joel out for you? You’re wasting your time, babe.”

Harry’s eyes narrow at ‘babe’, and for a moment he looks so angry it turns Zayn’s heart inside out.

“The first time Liam and I worked a case together, it was an accident,” Harry says suddenly, his forehead smoothing. “I was writing an article about this really weird double murder. It was Liam’s case, so I started stalking him, basically. I followed him everywhere he went, stepping on his toes all the time. Literally, sometimes. I’m still shocked he didn’t have me arrested.” He snorts, shaking his head at the memory. “But see, it turned out people were much more likely to talk to me than Liam. I mean, he’s good. Reasonable. Disciplined. But I seemed to get them to open up and spill, and Liam realised it quickly enough, so.” Harry shrugs. “I help him, he helps me. It works.”

Zayn pushes the tea aside. “So your job here was to get me to…spill?” Harry smiles slightly, clearly always a fan of a bad pun. It’s absurd to feel hurt, but Zayn can’t help it. “Did you fuck me cos you were hoping I’d start talking?”

The tea cup in Harry’s hand shakes.

“You fucked me, if memory serves.” He puts the cup down, face blank. “And then kicked me out.”

Wincing, Zayn drops his chin.

“I never quite understood how Liam could stand to work with him,” Harry continues as if nothing’s happened, nodding at the file. “He was useful, sure, but—” He breaks off and looks out the window, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “A lot of people wanted Joel dead, and anyone helping or hiding him would have been in danger.”

“I wouldn't piss on Joel if he was on fire,” Zayn says, his nails biting into the palms of his hands.

“I wouldn’t, either,” Harry says, lifting his eyes to him. His voice sounds harder than Zayn’s ever heard it. “We’re closing the case, I talked to Liam this morning. Someone probably found out that Joel was working with the police, so I’m sure there’s not much of a body left to find.”

Zayn fidgets in his chair. “Harry—”

“I could’ve sworn you and your brother knew something,” Harry interrupts. He spins the saucer between his fingers on the desk, and Zayn gets such a vivid flash of the night before, of Harry’s hands slipping over the polished surface of the table as Zayn fucks into him that his stomach clenches. Harry gives him a faintly amused look. “Guess I was wrong.”

Zayn can’t look at him; Harry’s doing this for him. He’s helping them even though he knows they did something, he knows and he’s deceiving his friend, likely risking his own arse in the process, all because he has no choice but to care.

“You don’t have to do this.” Zayn gets to his feet, running his hands over his face. “You can’t—I won’t let you take a fall for me.”

Standing up, Harry grabs his arm, fingers digging into Zayn’s bicep hard enough to bruise.

“Why do you care?” he asks roughly, pulling him in. He smells like mint and rain, breath fanning over Zayn’s cheek, and suddenly the room is too small, the ceiling’s too low, and Zayn needs to get out of here, away from Harry with his sad eyes and dimple-less smile. Harry’s gaze dips to Zayn’s mouth though, as if he can’t help it, and Zayn leans in to kiss him instead.

Neither of them moves for a long moment, the loud ticking of the old clock on the wall counting away the seconds like a metallic heartbeat, then Harry tips their foreheads together and sighs, thumbs stroking the corners of Zayn’s mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn murmurs, and Harry kisses his chin, his jaw, before sinking his teeth into Zayn’s neck. Gasping, Zayn presses himself against him and lets his head fall back as Harry sucks a bruise into his skin.

“You deserved that,” Harry says, licking over the bite to soothe it.

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, a little floaty, cupping the back of Harry’s neck to hold him in place.

Exhaling a laugh, Harry wraps his arms around him and presses a kiss into the curve of Zayn’s shoulder.

“Why can’t I stay away from you?”

The words sobers Zayn like a slap in the face. He puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders and holds on for a moment before pushing him away.

“It’s my fault,” he says. “I did this. It’s not…it isn’t real.”

“What are you on about?” Harry asks, eyes wary like he knows this will hurt, and it almost undoes Zayn.

“You wanted magic, yeah?” He lets go of Harry, needing to put some distance between them. “That’s what this is. You don’t want me, not really.”

“I don’t?” Harry looks down at the bulge in his joggers, then back at Zayn, and Zayn wants to put his mouth on him so badly he can scarcely think.

He scrambles back until his back hits the wall, and Harry sighs again, flopping down onto the bed.

“I did a spell when I was a kid,” Zayn tries again. “A love spell.”

“Very _Bell, Book and Candle,_ ” Harry comments, staring up at the ceiling.

“I wished for you, Harry,” he snaps. “You fell for me because of the fucking spell!”

Harry lifts his head to look at him, face closing off. “Who says I fell for you?”

“Oh,” Zayn says, heart sinking like a stone. He presses his palms to the wall behind him. That’s not—he didn’t see that coming.

Harry’s face crumples like a broken mask, revealing something raw and fragile underneath. He slides off the bed and walks over to Zayn.

“What if I did?” he whispers, fingers curling into the fabric of Zayn’s T-shirt. “What if I knew your worst, scariest secrets, and I still did?”

Nails digging into the wall, Zayn shakes his head. “You don’t know—”

“About the curse?” He shrugs at Zayn’s stunned face. “Like I said, people love to talk. Your uncle in particular.”

“I’ve seen people lose their minds with grief.” Zayn closes his eyes. “I’ve seen my father—I can’t, Harry.” His chest is so tight it feels like his ribs might snap like dry twigs. “Don’t ask me to.”

“Well, I am,” Harry says, a tremor in his voice. “I’m scared shitless and I’m fucking asking you, Zayn.” He tips his head forward onto Zayn’s shoulder, the hand that’s holding onto him trembling as he breathes into Zayn’s skin, “I think I wished for you too.”

Something inside Zayn gives way, collapsing like an old, dilapidated house. Slowly, he puts his hands on Harry’s hips, turning his face into Harry’s neck to press a kiss into the hollow of his throat. Harry’s pulse flutters under his lips, an unsteady _thump thump thump_ that makes Zayn want to promise him the world or burn it down for him, if that’s what Harry wanted.

Before he can say anything, his phone rings in his pocket.

Harry snorts. “Perfect timing.”

Holding Harry against him with an arm around his waist, Zayn takes the phone out and frowns at it.

“Are you dying, Niall?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Zayn.”

“Because if you’re not, it can wait.”

“Zayn,” Niall repeats, voice shaking. “You need to come home. Now.”

 

 

 

 

Niall’s sitting at the kitchen island, brow creased in concentration as he crushes something in a small granite mortar. Or rather, he’s trying to beat the shit out of it, from the look of things.

“You’re not doing it properly,” Zayn tells him from the doorway.

The pestle slips out of Niall’s hand and draws a lazy circle, scraping gently against the bottom of the bowl. Niall stares at it in fascination.

Popping up behind Zayn, Harry hooks his chin over his shoulder.

“No hands, huh?” he murmurs in his ear. “That might come in ha—”

“Shh.” Zayn brings a hand up to Harry’s cheek and kisses the side of his head. “Shush.”

“Cute,” Niall deadpans. “Didn't know you were bringing company.”

“Well, we were…” Zayn trails off, exchanging a quick glance with Harry, who shrugs. “So, where’s the fire?”

His aunt bursts into the kitchen, out of breath, her hair a mess.

“Niall, love, are you done with the basil? Do you think you can—Oh.” Lou stops in her tracks, stumbling on her unreasonably high heels. She glares at Zayn. “ _You_.”

There’s a brass chalice in her hand, tendrils of fragrant smoke wreathing up from it. Frankincense, Zayn decides, taking a deep breath. Frankincense and basil for banishing evil, his tired mind supplies, suddenly going into overdrive.

“Lou,” he says cautiously, “what’s going on?”

Beside him, Harry shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, but Lou doesn’t seem to notice him at all. Without a word, she kicks the door to the living room open.

Zayn’s not sure what he expected to see, but it’s definitely not Louis tied to a chair with a clothes line rope.

Louis strains against it, and Nick leans down, whispering something soothingly. He’s careful not to touch him, though, Zayn notices, heart stopping dead in his chest.

“What the fuck,” Harry says.

Abruptly, Louis slumps in the chair and flashes Zayn a grin that makes his stomach lurch.

“Look who decided to show up,” Louis drawls, and wrong. _Wrong wrong wrong_. “We were waiting for you, ducky.”

“What—” Zayn clears his throat. “What did you just call me?”

Nick gives him an unreadable look. Over his shoulder, the moon peeks through the French doors; its wide, pallid face is splattered with blood.

Head dipping down, Zayn grips the edge of the kitchen island, sure he’s going to throw up. Harry’s hand instantly finds its way to the small of his back, steadying him. Zayn’s grateful, although he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel steady again.

“Zayn,” Harry starts hesitantly, then closes his mouth, as though he’s not certain what to ask.

Lou’s eyes zero in on him for the first time, then flick to Zayn and back to Harry, and Zayn realises he’s leaning into him, forehead pressed to Harry’s cheek.

His aunt produces a bottle of wine from the cupboard over the sink and pushes it towards Harry across the counter.

“Here,” she says, trying for a smile and failing. “You’re going to need this if you’re sticking around.”

 

 

 

“A spirit,” Harry repeats tonelessly. “We are exorcising an evil spirit.”

Nodding, Lou grabs the bottle from him and takes a long swig.

“You’re not gonna ask whose spirit, Harry?” not-Louis taunts. He’s sitting on the living room floor in the centre of another circle of candles.

Zayn can’t look at him. The curve of his lips, the look in his eyes—it’s not his brother, it isn’t, and the thought of Louis curled up into a tiny ball, pushed back deep into his own mind while this…this _thing_ rages inside his head and takes over his body makes Zayn sick.

Harry’s eyes look huge and dark in his pale face, but he lifts his chin and gives Louis a hard stare.

“Shut up, Joel,” he says.

“Well,” Niall mutters, “you _are_ smart. We thought Zayn was just saying that cos he’s into you.”

“Thanks.” Harry frowns. “I think.”

“I like this one.” Nick jabs a finger at Harry.

Joel suddenly howls, throwing himself against the invisible barrier that keeps him inside the circle. He groans as if he’s slammed into a wall, and Zayn flinches.

“I’m gonna drag you all to hell with me, you fucking freaks!” Joel whines, sliding back onto the floor.

“Here we go again,” Lou sighs, and Zayn gets the very distinct impression that no one’s asked him what happened because Joel’s already covered it, likely more than once.

Shifting gears, Joel casts a pitiful glance at Harry. “You knew me, Harry, you worked with me for months. How can you not care?”

“I do.” Harry swallows, pressing his palm against Zayn’s. “Just not about you.”

Zayn silently links their fingers.

 

 

 

Harry’s hand is still in his, and Niall’s squeezing the other one so hard Zayn can’t feel his fingers anymore. The Frankincense fills the living room with billows of heavy, sweet-smelling smoke, making it harder and harder to breathe, and the moon’s bloodied face is grinning at him through the window like a sinister clown.

A long shadow creeps up the wall and spreads across the ceiling like spilled ink, hanging over their heads.

“Just keep repeating the words,” Nick whispers, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

Sat on the floor next to him, Lou looks so worn out and frail that Zayn’s gut twists with a new spasm of guilt. It leaves behind the sort of bone-deep tiredness that seems to become part of you, dragging you under deeper and deeper.

The dark shadow hovers above them with a low, menacing crackle, like a brewing thunderstorm. Every hair on Zayn’s body stands on end in response. Beside him, Harry makes a strangled noise, as if he’s in pain.

Concentrating on the carefully controlled flow of his own energy, Zayn aims it towards the ceiling and lets it burst out of him like a shock wave. It’s petty and foolish, but he feels a surge of vindictive joy ripple through him when the shadow tears to shreds and scampers into the corner.

The half-melted candles drip wax on the hardwood floor. Louis lies in the circle, curled on his side. After what seemed like hours of screeching and writhing and cursing, he looks peaceful now, too peaceful.

Nick and Lou exchange a glance, and Zayn can see it in their faces too; his heart clenches like a fist.

_Hold on, you idiot, just hold on, please, Lou_.

Louis’ eyes snap open, and Zayn sees the moment of clarity there, the recognition.

“Zayn,” he breathes, and Zayn connects Harry and Niall’s hands without thinking, slipping under their arms.

“Zayn,” Harry echoes behind him, alarmed.

“Careful,” Lou warns as he edges closer to the circle, her voice croaky.

Nodding, Zayn lowers himself onto the floor, his face next to Louis’.

His brother licks his cracked lips, gaze flicking to Harry.

“So you finally pulled your head out of your arse,” he whispers. “’bout time.”

Zayn lets out a shaky laugh. “Worry about your own damn love life, Lou. At least I’ve no exes trying to kill us.”

“S’alright.” Louis winces like talking hurts, eyes closing again. “I won’t let him touch you.”

The fine web of veins on his eyelids looks like purple cobwebs against his sallow skin. Louis’ breathing slows down, face relaxing infinitesimally, and Zayn knows what he’s doing because Zayn would have done the same.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses, hand shooting between the candles before he’s had time to consider it. His aunt makes a small noise of distress, but Zayn just grabs Louis’ hand and grips until Louis looks at him again. His eyes are bleary, but it’s still him, the mix of fondness and annoyance in them so painfully familiar. “I swear, Louis, if you die, I’m gonna bring you back just so I can kill you myself.”

The corner of Louis’ mouth twitches. He presses his cheek to the floorboards. “You would.”

His body jerks as if hit by an electrical charge, and Zayn holds his hand tighter, watching helplessly as Louis bites down on his lip so hard he draws blood.

“Hey. Louis. Lou, look at me,” he pleads, and something hot and wet slides down his cheek, tears or sweat or both, but he doesn’t bother to wipe it away. “Louis,” Zayn breathes again, barely audible, nose almost touching one of the candles, “stay with me, please.”

He reaches out frantically with his mind, looking for something to hold onto, his own power wavering with the effort to keep Louis there and the walls in place. He can hear Lou sobbing, Nick whispering tearfully to her, and Niall’s shallow, laboured breaths. Their energy dims with grief and exhaustion, and it’s no use. It’s not what he needs.

Zayn almost jumps when he feels the gentle, fleeting touch to his mind. The low, steady thrum of the energy that washes over him is both familiar and new, warm like the molten gold of a summer haze and sweet like a kiss goodnight. Harry offers himself as though he knows, opening up for him, and Zayn clings to him like a drowning man.

Louis blinks in confusion. “What was that?”

“Just don’t let go, Lou,” Zayn tells him. _You and me, remember?_

A spark of Louis’ usual stubbornness flashes in his glassy eyes; he gives the barest of nods, but it’s enough.

The candles flare up like fuel set ablaze, and the energy in the room suddenly becomes tangible, visible, like strands of wool Zayn can touch and weave together. He can feel it in his bloodstream, shooting through his system, and his free hand claws at the floor as the room spins, vibrating around them as if the world’s tilting sharply on its axis.

Behind him Harry gasps.

Zayn’s mind is flooded, overwhelmed, images and sounds and flashes of thoughts and emotions, like a faint imprint of a thousand lives, gone and forgotten. They’re all there, generations upon generations, Louis and Zayn’s blood and cell memory, locked in the fragile vessel of their clasped hands.

Eyes going wide, Louis sucks in a shuddering breath, and Zayn knows he sees it too—the people drowning and burning at the stake, the friendships and bonds, the meetings and partings. And love, so much love, lost and wasted, yearned for, ungiven and rejected, tainted with the tears of the woman who cursed her own line.

Some had burned bright and brilliant for a brief moment, before fading like spent light bulbs; others had wandered the world alone, poisoned with fear and riddled with doubt, or knocked on all the wrong doors, behind which waited downfall and ruin.

They’re nothing but a sad memory now, one that can be mourned later, Zayn thinks with sudden fierceness.

_But we’re still here._

Louis’ fingers tighten around his, and Zayn nods.

“We’re here,” he whispers back, the words curling deep in his heart like an oath, like a promise, tying together broken threads and healing old scars.

The ghost of an ancient smile flits behind his eyelids, and the heavy, ominous air weighing upon the room dissipates, leaving behind only silence. It rings in Zayn’s ears like a scream, disorientating him for a second. The storm inside his head is gone, the spaces it no longer occupies deserted like an empty, eerily quiet street after the fair has left town.

Lou leans against Nick, and he wraps a clumsy arm around her waist.

“Is it over?” Niall rasps out.

Louis looks asleep, but his grip on Zayn’s hand doesn’t loosen, reassuringly tight as if to answer Niall’s question. Rolling over onto his back, Zayn drops the walls and lets the candles go out.

Quieter now, Harry’s energy is still fluttering through Zayn’s veins, soft like a caress. Zayn turns his head to look at him, at Harry’s drawn face and hunched shoulders, the sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, and he can feel the fabric of his own world tearing at the seams, expanding and changing shape, knitting back together to mend itself into something else, something new.

“Thank you,” he mouths.

Harry gives him a tired, lopsided smile, then sprawls on the floor, spread eagle. Zayn breathes out a laugh, eyes drifting shut.

Something better, he lets himself hope.

 

 

 

 

Harry joins him under the willow later. He looks a bit shaken, as weary as Zayn feels, but as he settles on the ground next to him, back against the tree trunk, Harry makes sure they’re pressed together from shoulder to thigh.

Zayn lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“We’ve got to get rid of the body,” Harry says, apropos of nothing.

Zayn stares up at the sliver of dark sky visible through the branches; it’s clear and crisp, dusted with a scattering of stars.

“We?”

“Well, yeah. Unless you want to, like, levitate him into the sea or something. I feel like a flying corpse would probably draw some attention, though,” Harry muses, rolling his head towards him. “Maybe. This town is weird.”

Zayn lifts his eyebrows at him, and Harry widens his eyes as if to ask, _what?_

“You’re fucking mental,” Zayn says fondly.

“And you put a hex on your aunt’s rose bushes.” Harry nudges him with his knee. “Let’s not point fingers here.”

Chuckling, Zayn stretches his legs in front of him and leans into Harry more. Harry doesn’t say anything, just drapes an arm around his shoulders and lets Zayn tuck himself against his side. There’s a tiny, pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though, and it must be the reason why Zayn blurts, “I felt the curse breaking.”

“That’s good,” Harry says absently, playing idly with Zayn’s hair like he’s thinking about something else. “Louis is going to be okay, yeah?”

“He’s gonna be fine,” Zayn replies, a little puzzled. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“This is home then?”

He knows that Harry’s got a glimpse of the inside of his mind and heart when he’d given Zayn his energy, he’d seen Zayn raw and real and stripped bare before him, and the need and longing buried there had surprised even Zayn.

“It can be,” he says slowly.

“It has its charms,” Harry agrees, “cow poo and all.”

“I was thinking.” Zayn flings a leg over Harry’s thighs and asks, with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, “When you’re not working with Liam, you can write from anywhere, yeah?”

Harry hums noncommittally, and Zayn’s about to start tearing his hair out when he feels Harry’s chest vibrate under him. He’s laughing, the crackbrained twit. Zayn tries to pull away in a huff of righteous indignation, but Harry doesn’t let him, wrapping his arms around him.

“What was that, Zayn?” he asks, kissing Zayn’s ear.

“Never mind, I don’t like you anymore.”

He smothers a laugh when Harry bites his ear.

A cuckoo calls in the distance, and they both reach for their pockets, giggling as they elbow each other. Zayn finds a coin first and closes his fingers around it.

“When I was twelve,” he says after a moment, “I wished for you without meaning to. And I guess—that’s how love spells work, you know, the crash and burn, how we couldn’t stop or turn away so we fucking collided. The spell will wear off eventually, or maybe it already has, I don’t know. But either way, we never really had a choice.”

Harry lifts his eyelashes, a delicate look on his face that could turn into hope or crumble to dust with one hasty breath.

“So I’m making one now,” Zayn says, heart in his throat, and presses the two pence piece into Harry’s palm. “And I’ve never meant anything more.”

Harry’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and it’s not his usual slow, smooth smile but something uneven and a little clumsy, as though he’s too happy to care what his face is doing.

Linking their fingers, he leans in to kiss Zayn, the coin clasped between their hands.

The wind chimes above them are silent.

Zayn smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://archangelblood.tumblr.com/)


End file.
